It's Not A Rabbit Hat
by Abby Ebon
Summary: Here is the trick, you're supposed to pull a rabbit out of a magic hat. It's probably where we got the term 'plot bunny' if honest. So these are my 'rabbits out of the hat', stories that are one shots and prompts.
1. Saving You To Save Me, TimeTurner Sirius

_Saving You To Save Me_

_By: Abby Ebon_

Summary: a Harry Potter, Sirius, using a time turner to save them, prompt, from comment_fic.

* * *

Sirius is staring across the street at Peter – no, not Peter, he's Pettigrew, the coward who killed Lily and James and left Harry an orphan. He shakes and trembles and breaths, and doesn't move until he can see past the blood pounding through his head, he's furious and wants nothing more then to throttle Peter into the dirt, and see him buried into Azkaban's foundations.

But, damn-it, he is Sirius Black, Auror, with a plan. He's going to fix this, make it right, so even as it makes the skin at the back of his neck crawl, Sirius turns his back on Pettigrew, so the other – the traitor – does not see Sirius Black on a crowded London street, and Sirius makes his way to the Ministry of Magic, gets on the elevator, and goes to Level Nine, Department of Mysteries, where Time Turners are.

He keeps in mind, as the sands spin and roll like dice, that he's fixing a mistake that never should have been, and they can take care of the Dark Lord without Lily and James dying – without leaving Harry Potter an orphan in a broken world. Sirius looks up in time to see Dumbledore come into the room, a panicked look on his face, and when he catches sight of Sirius, the black haired man with the heart of a child, only smirks and winks before golden sand roars in his ears like a storm.

It isn't the usual thing that happens when one uses a Time Turner, but then this isn't the usual case – once Sirius does what he wants; there will be no reversing it – no going home. Sirius can think of nothing he wants more then to pretend it all never happened.

-----

"You'll need a secret keeper," Dumbledore says, and his blue eyes measure the man before him, "no one would suspect Peter." James tosses his shoulders and shakes his head, lips pressing into a firm line. For once in his life, he is keeping a secret from Dumbledore, and it's Sirius – his best friend, but not – because this Sirius is wild eyed and measured in a way his Sirius is not, and James fully intends to keep it this way. His best friend will not become a broken man.

"Peter is weak. Sirius is what people would expect me to choose, so they would not go looking for him, sure that I would know they would suspect him." Dumbledore presses his lips into a disapprovingly thin line, but James does not break – this is his life, and Lily's, and their Harry, and Sirius's too.

"If you are sure?" Dumbledore trails off, hinting and luring, but James does not bend. Dumbledore is his mentor and headmaster of Hogwarts, he means the best, but he is only a wizard and mortal and makes his mistakes like the rest of them. James will not let this become a mistake, not for his Sirius, and not for the Sirius that hovers over Harry as a black grim, ominous and protective.

"I am." James assures, and Dumbledore sighs, but gives in, handing over a little vial that contains the charm. Its drinker will be their secret keeper.

"Then give this to him." James does, but it's too the Sirius with broken blue eyes, who never leaves Harry's side. Maybe he needs to know they have faith in him, and James can't convince himself he was wrong when it's ten years later and Harry Potter enters Hogwarts with a black dog at his side, for all the world, this Sirius is the grim of nightmare, but it's Harry who will always be saved.


	2. Meeting Harry, Potter & Dresden

_Meeting Harry  
_

_By: Abby Ebon_

Summary: a Dresden Files/Harry Potter, Harry Dresden, Harry Potter, the first time one wizard heard about the other, prompt, from comment_fic.

* * *

Harry Dresden was growing up under the care of Ebenezar McCoy when he first heard the name "Harry Potter"; he lay in his cot half-asleep and dozing. It must have been a floor board creaking, or simply Ebenezar's soft voice as he whispered to the fire. Wizards did that, Harry had learned, and much more besides.

"He lived then, the boy?" It was asked rough and guarded, but there was hope there.

"Yes, they are calling him the Boy Who Lived." Stated a voice that Harry did not know, but he heard all the same that it was amused.

"Poor lad, seems to me wizard lads called Harry are cursed." Ebenezar mused, and Harry Dresden was quiet and wide eyed as he pretended to sleep. Cursed, was he? Or the other boy, the other Harry - were their two of him, like look a like? Or was it only a name that some other boy shared? Harry shivered that he didn't know.

"None more so then Harry Potter…." The whispering voice in the fire declared, mournful and burdened.

"I would not be so sure." Ebenezar said no more, and it was just as well, because the fire went out and Harry Dresden hoped he never heard that whispering name again. Such hopes, alas, were in vain.

Harry Potter was sixteen and fresh from England when he first walked the streets of Chicago, things had changed for him with the Dark Lord dead (he could now walk the streets free and without eyes always on him; or perhaps this was only a big-city treat in America) – but as he got a muggle paper and looked in the ads, like any ordinary person off the street might, he hadn't thought things had changed so much as this.

'Wizard for Hire' the ad claimed, listing a name and address, as if it was any other ordinary business, being a wizard. Surely this man was a wizard gone mad! Harry resolved to solve this and be done with it so he could go back to having an ordinary summer vacation for once, perhaps. This was, after all, the Ministry's treat; surely he could return the favor with one less mad wizard in the world for them to worry over.

"You're Harry Dresden." Harry greeted the man matter-of-fact in his own office, he who was now looking up at him, and had been when Harry had opened the door and stepped inside as if it was where he belonged. It was a nice sort of office, but very plain and muggle, and he suspected it must be if muggles came here after all.

"That was locked!" Dresden protested, as if that should make a difference to a wizard. Harry only frowned at him, puzzled.

"It isn't broken." Harry told him, admittedly now more polite when face to face with a wizard he had thought mad, but clearly – was not, or no more then usually was the case.

"And you didn't knock." Dresden grumbled softly, and Harry noticed what he hadn't before, that this man had a staff in the corner of the office and a bracelet about his wrist and a ring that could act the part of a wand if need was great. All of these were dangerous and somehow primitive compared to what Harry was used to. Harry found himself flushing, for what business of his how well off this man who shared his first name was? Perhaps that was why he offered his service in a common muggle paper, for lack of money.

"Sorry, I'm Harry Potter," at his name leaving his lips, Dresden's eyes were wide and blinking suddenly, "yes, the Boy Who Lived." Harry rolled his eyes, and Dresden shrugged a shoulder, frowning at him all the while.

"You're just a kid; did they name you after him?" Dresden asked, having decided somewhere along the line that Harry wasn't a threat and his fingers threaded though his hands, bridging the gap as Dresden settled his head in them.

"What…no, I am him." Harry struggled to explain, at this Dresden cocked his head, as if he was part-bird.

"Wizards who go rogue don't have kids sent after them." Dresden explained slowly, as if this was a truth that could not be denied. Maybe, to him, it was. Harry wished keenly that that was how the world was, really.

"Well then, you might say I was bait." For the first time their eyes met, and that was something wizards and witches simply did not do, from old memories of unguarded ancestors; but there was something wild in Dresden's eyes, and Harry let down his guard and found himself sucked into another wizard's head. His mind and soul were naked in turn, and Harry realized that this was a raw and wild sort of magic that was all a wizard's own; both of them understood now and knew each other in ways they probably would have preferred not.

Dresden's eyes were wide, and his hands shook only a little.

"So," he said softly "there is a school." Harry's lips twitched, and neither of them could help but laugh.


	3. Wizard Play, MerlinxHarry Potter

Wizard Play

Merlin/Harry Potter, Harry/Merlin, Wizards

It's like looking in a mirror, only not – it's as real as the magic that makes up their wizard blood. Messy black hair with gold eyes meeting messy black hair and wicked green eyes for the first time. Harry licks his lips, and mouths the words "want to, play?" and Merlin is flushed and can't think of a thing to say, so he says nothing at all and only nods.


	4. Calling Harry, Potter & Dresden

Calling Harry

WizardsGirl's prompt: Harry Potter/Harry Dresden

"Harry speaking…" Harry drawled, the phone had rung, and while he hadn't much experience with muggle things, he knew how to pick up a phone. Dresden, after all, hadn't told him _not_ to.

"You're not Harry." A male voice states, very clearly.

"Uh, I am actually, fair sure of it." Harry smiles as he speaks, having a bit of fun with this stranger. This is, at least, not as boring as "house sitting" where in the wards of the house were actually watching _you_.

"Right…" Bland and yet somehow very angry, as if Harry were threatening someone: Harry rolls his eyes.

"Tell _Harry_ that Thomas is on his way." The phone clicks, leaving Harry looking at the receiver.

"Right. Anger management, look it up." He tells the room at large. It's no wonder that Harry's thoughts linger on that strange phone call, there is nothing at all to do in Dresden's apartment – no cleaning, the little "brownies" (as Dresden calls them, Harry knows they are shy House Elves) do that, and no magic-making, as Dresden took away his wand – and the downstairs is all locked up with the skull and it's glowing green eyes guarding it.

Harry has an aversion to that skull, if only because it's freaking creepy – and one of Voldemort's old symbols.

He swears the skull – Bob leers at him. Dresden's only word on that had been – you get _used_ to it.

Harry didn't really want to get _used_ to it.

Then the knocking started. Harry – because Dresden hadn't said not to – answered it. And found him self kidnapped: or rather, a pale hand had grabbed his wrist – jerking him out of Dresden's protective wards and into the arms of the vampire who had Harry pinned now to the ground.

"You're pretty." Harry says, because he has to – he feels like he has a school boy crush. Physically though, he _wants: _it's pure and simple, no matter his feelings. He swallows, because he knows what this sort of vampire is: incubus.

"White Court, damn…" Harry lets his body go lax, because he's a wizard and no match for the physical strength that this vampire could be using. His best bet is to stay low until he's under estimated. Harry really wishes not to be seen as a threat. To be otherwise, and this vulnerable, would be dumb indeed. Dumb as in dead.

"Where is Harry?" Dark haired, long jawed and snarling – there is something familiar about this one, though Harry hasn't seen anyone one so lovely. Harry blinks up at the incubus, and smiles as if drugged.

"Right here..." Said lovely incubus hisses, using his inhuman strength to pick up and slam Harry into the door step. Harry sees stars, but he also sees someone could save him.

"Where is Harry _Dresden_?" Frustration doesn't make an incubus happy – hell, it doesn't make Harry happy – and he's a wizard and _wants_, and Harry uses pain to his own advantage, smiling up at the pretty incubus, his eyes clear instead of dazed by lust.

"Behind you." The vampire incubus goes still, becoming aware of the jab of a wizard's staff at his lower back.

"Get off him." Harry hasn't heard Dresden that furious, ever. Pain makes Harry blink his eyes, they are wet. He didn't think anyone would ever give so much of a damn as that since Voldemort fell.

"Harry?" Gorgeous looks over his shoulder, nervous.

"_Thomas_! What the hell?" Dresden sounds surprised, which isn't like him at all – Dresden has been in more magical and street fights then Harry, but Harry knows more and finer magic. This isn't magic the vampire is using; he's made who he is very obvious.

"Former lover..?" Harry quips, he's gotten hurt over this, so yes he can be _bitter_ it's only because he hadn't been properly warned. Mockingly, Harry lets his body do as it's been wanting to, relax as if into an offering. If this is the only introduction he's getting, Thomas will damn well remember it.

Thomas, an incubus, feeds on feelings; he hovers over Harry – caught between the two, to do what Dresden asks, or what Harry feels - and very slowly gets up, reluctant to leave Harry laying there.

"No." Dresden rolls his eyes, showing more trust in Thomas in those few seconds then Harry has right to be jealous of.

"Big brother." Thomas says very softly, as if he can excuse how rough he's been with how gentle he makes his voice. Harry lets his eyes rove over him, in a way that makes Dresden scowl.

"Harry Potter." He winks with grin, there is a pink tinge to Thomas's cheeks – and he looks confusedly between Harry and Dresden.

Dresden shrugs, with a look to Harry who lay prone at their feet. Harry, just to be difficult, makes no motion to move.

"He came out of my fireplace." Dresden then sort of shrugs with one shoulder, offering the end of his wizard's staff for Harry to use to get up with: it's a gesture he doesn't think twice upon. It's what gives them away. Thomas's eyes are wide, for while there is little commonly known among magical folk – it's that you either are lover or blood to touch what is keyed to another's magical nature. It's dangerous, but Harry doesn't hesitate to take the wizard's staff and stand. The tingle of energy freely given and gained tingles like sparks on his fingertips.

"Pleased to meet you." Harry says in the end, because he is.


	5. Secret Identities, HP& Batman

Secret Identities

_Kaitlyn October Snape's _prompt: Harry Potter/Batman, Bruce Wayne/Sirius Black (Commissioner Gordon), They each find out the other is not who he seems.

*As _Kaitlyn October Snape got inspired by a "Bite Sized Bits of Fic" prompt (DW : Redicuious) and is currently writing it, lets keep the plot bunnies going!* _

"Who are you?" The voice grated, growled. Sirius went very, very still. He recognized this voice very well. In fact it was a voice he'd heard nearly every day grow into puberty, now into early adulthood. Sirius Black had his back to the speaker, but recognized that voice even if he wasn't meant to. All of Gotham would hear that voice and know their vigilante. Sirius snorts, realizing he's been placed the fool – Bruce is Batman, and now his behavior recently starts to make a little more sense in a this twilight.

"Easy," Sirius warns, not daring to turn around – his hands went up easy, without being told, "don't go and do something you're going to regret." There had never been a right time to tell, and now? Now it was too late. Sirius didn't have to exaggerate his unease, his nervous glance over his shoulder as Batman hovered there. Just in sight, at the corner of his eyes: a shadow that isn't a part of the night.

"Where is Commissioner Gordon?" It was a furious snarl now, a threat that Sirius would be a fool to ignore. He'd spoken wrong, again – he'd made it seem like he was the threat – he doesn't have time to curse, either in profanity or wand-waving. A heavy young and armored body shoved him into the wall and held him up, pinned there like a butterfly on display. Sirius let out a bark of laughter, at a memory of a black haired boy with a horrified curled lip at a museum display of insects. It's as reassuring as it is funny. He rests in this grip, at ease against the weight and angles of a familiar body – Sirius Black, is the one whose changed bodies after all.

"He isn't in any danger unless you're an idiot – which, by the way – I know you're not, Bruce." A harsh exhale, a whoosh of breath going out – pained, as if Sirius Black had kicked Batman in the gut. If anything that grip on his wrists tightens. Sirius doesn't mind, he's the one being an idiot. Bruce must think that Gordon's betrayed him, and Gordon would never do that unless tortured beyond his threshold of values and sanity. Sirius knows that, because he is the exact same way: the exact same person, as a matter of fact.

"Where is he?" A hissed plea: Sirius Black closes his eyes, pained. He doesn't know if he can do this after all, pack up everything and fly away. In a effort to banish such second guessing thoughts, he speaks.

"You don't need him anymore." It's the truth too, Bruce is all grown up – and Commissioner Gordon can be replaced. Sirius knows just how easily.

"Please." Choked, fearing the worst. Just this morning, Bruce had wanted nothing to do with him. Sirius feels wetness on his neck, and knows it's not sweat or blood, but tears. Batman is begging, it's what every criminal in Gotham would pay to hear – but Sirius feels fierce protectiveness rise up, and he sighs, giving it up.

"He's me." Sirius admits softly, closing his eyes so he doesn't see what Bruce's reaction will be.

"W-what..?" Young, shaky – but no growl to it: Bruce has forgotten himself.

"Call Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth: ask him the true identity of Commissioner James Worthington Gordon of Gotham City." Names, with wizards, are everything. Alfred had known him on fight sight, and Sirius had been okay with that. He hears every word Bruce says to his butler, whispered near his ear. Bruce does not dare let him go, and Sirius is …okay, with this trap, this non-escape clause. There will be no going away.

"Sirius Black..." It's the name he hears, his name that he opens his eyes to.

"That's right, Batman." Sirius sounds deadpan, least any accusation fall upon him first.


	6. Right Of Way, HP & Batman

Right Of Way

_May Eve_ prompt(s): Harry Potter/Batman, Harry Potter meeting Batman. Their first encounter with whatever back story you want.

*_This prompt was requested by review on_ Bite Sized Bits of Fic: _but as the back story is like _Secret Identities_, I posted it here_.*

The same day Bruce Wayne comes to Britain, is the same day that Harry Potter – age seven – pets his first stray dog. He remembers because Aunt Petunia shoos him out of the house so that Uncle Vernon and Dudley can watch the telly _comfortably_.

That it's raining isn't something Aunt Petunia gives a second thought in sending him out into.

He's supposed to be gardening, but he's gone to the park instead. No one else is there, but that suits Harry just fine. He sits and swings until he sees the great big black dog laid out under the tree, watching him with a wagging tail. There is something lonely at the sight of it, lonely just like Harry is.

Harry drags his shoes in the woodchips to slow the swing to a stop. The dog watches him do this, but nothing else. He doesn't run away either, when Harry gets up. Shaking off the feeling of being watched, Harry goes over to the dog. He doesn't really get see them up close and kindly, usually Harry is too busy running from their barks and sharp teeth. Those are only Aunt Marge's dogs.

This one is big enough to send any bulldogs running scared. It's lean and big boned with shaggy black hair falling everywhere.

Harry reaches out, daringly, but it's the black dog that makes the first move toward contact, putting its head under his palm. With how big the dog looked, and how wild, it's surprising how soft the fur is.

"Hello there." Harry greets the dog, smiling. Its mouth gapes open, teeth showing, tongue sticking out in a dog smile.

"He seems to like you." Harry jerks toward the sound of the voice, as if a little boy could defend the stray dog at his feet. What he sees is a man in a rich suit, an umbrella above his head – and the limo stretched out in the road behind him.

"Bruce Wayne." If there could be any doubt in Harry to who this man is, it's banished by the man's first introduction. Harry looks aside to the dog, and feels a yearning – and shame, mixing with frustration. He could never just be let to have a dog, so he asks, to know why Bruce Wayne is here instead of somewhere richer.

"Is he your dog?" The black dog looks up to Bruce, and there is something like a challenge in those eyes.

"No. Just a friend." Bruce Wayne smiles, but Harry doesn't understand why.

"What's his name?" Harry asks instead, and Bruce opens the door to his limo, expectantly.

"Sirius Black." Harry has never heard of a dog with two names, and certainly never a dog which has rich men opening doors for them. Sirius looks back at Harry, waiting before he goes on – waiting for Harry to follow.

"I'll give you a ride home." Bruce says with a sigh.

The thing is though, is that when they reach the Dursley house, Bruce Wayne tells Harry to stay seated – not that that isn't hard to do, with Sirius's head in his lap. Harry watches from a window he can see through but no one can see into, as Bruce Wayne talks to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon.

The window between passenger and driver rolls down, and an old man meets his eyes in the mirror.

"Hello, Harry. My name is Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth. We three are alike, you see." Sirius raises his head and sits in the backseat, then he changes – shifting and blurring – a man sits where a dog had.

"What are you?" Harry asks, shakily.

"_We _three are all wizards." Sirius Black reassures him, ruffling his hair with a smile.

"And Bruce Wayne…?" Harry asks, feeling shy with the warmth and easy acceptance.

"Is adopting you as we speak…." Sirius sounds dreadfully amused, but Harry turns back to the window to watch it happen – watch his life change right before his eyes.


	7. Saving the Savior, HPx Percy Jackson

Saving the Savior

Harry (Short For Heracles)

_Abby Ebon_

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Note: so, I just finished the fifth Percy Jackson book awhile ago, and boy – were there a lot of reverences to Heracles – and I'm not sure _how_, other then to twist all those little Harry Potter/Percy Jackson crossovers up – but I got to thinking (okay, there may or may not have been _hysterical gigging _involved) about Harry actually being, you know, Heracles.

Yeah, that's the story I'm sticking to.

Oh the **fun** I had.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Harry," Hermione protested softly at the sight of him, "this isn't healthy."

It was getting harder to think that Harry was growing still from youth into man; he had done so much in the time she had known him like this. Harry looked up at her from the glow of the hearth fire he'd been looking at unseeingly. His thoughts, she knew, were elsewhere. Unthinking in acknowledgement of her presence, he gave half a smile but his eyes were dull, unfocused on the here and now. His cheeks were scruffy and unshaved, and his hair was a wild and shaggy mane, the skin under his eyes was sleeplessly bruised.

"At least tell me what is doing this to you." _This time_, she did not say as she pleaded, settling down on the floor beside him. Harry gave a shake of his head, as if to deny anything was the matter, but when he spoke to reassure her, the words were disturbing.

"I keep seeing them, Hermione. They…they're dead, you see? I _know_ that, but it _hurts_ so much. Worse, I don't know who they are – no names, only endless faces – and every single one of them…dead. For, for so long..." Harry stopped rambling; as if he knew what he was saying didn't make sense. Tears still ran down his face. He mourned them, the nameless that he didn't know, but somehow recognized.

Hermione leaned into his legs, feeling as if she was forcing him to remember himself, she was a warm presence – more alive then Harry felt. She felt helpless, adrift in a sea of madness that was not her own, even as she closed her eyes for peace; the fire was framed red against her eyelids.

Images flickered and swayed in her vision, leaving half formed impressions.

Hermione slept, and when she woke, was alone.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

The touch of death is cold, so Harry was not truly surprised when he came back to himself at the cold touch of black winged Thanatos. Eyes as black and haunted as mist settling over graves at midnight regarded him. No word was spoken between them. Harry Potter, after all, was dead.

_I do not see why you persist in this_. _You do harm to yourself. _Cold was a very good word to describe Thanatos. There seemed no passion that would ever sway him, not that Harry could imagine. He said 'harm' as a matter of fact, as if like sneaking up on people, and killing them peacefully in their sleep wasn't – somehow – _harm_.

_What else am I supposed to do_? Harry asked, stubborn and sneering, his eyes trailed back to Hermione, unseeing of either Harry or Thanatos, for all that stood in the very same room. Harry hated how vulnerable Hermione seemed, she could not see them – she was defenseless to things she did not see – that Harry _could_ see now, could protect her from – now.

Harry's purpose, unreasonable as Thanatos deemed it to be, was to protect her, his presence enough to sway Thanatos into only focusing on Harry - or what was _left_ of Harry Potter, at least. It was the least he could do, the last thing he had to offer, his presence as a protection.

_Come with me_. That answer did not change, and Harry feared it never would.

_I have no interest in this girl._ Thanatos argued it was already an old and reasonable – almost predictable - argument; one Harry had a vested interest in winning. The god of death, the taker of souls – this ancient winged reaper, had _time_ on his side, but Harry had a stubbornness to test the patience of the deathless gods. Thanatos had, at least, left that impression.

_I have no interest in Hell_. Irony might have bitten the unspoken words, Thanatos was equally icy.

_It is not Hell, it is Hades. You will come with me eventually, hero_. It almost surprised Harry, for _that_ had sounded like a taunt. Thanatos caught that hint of his interest, and if it was dignified for immortals to roll their eyes, the god of death certainly left the mental impression of exactly that.

_Answer's lay within the Underworld; the names of the dead you saw in your death dream_, _those can be found within Hades_. Harry remembered that dream, even in death – especially in death, they haunted him. He felt torn in two, wanting to know the _names_ of the nameless faces, the ancient familiar dead; wanting to protect the living he would be leaving behind.

_If I didn't like it, would I have to stay_? It's a question he dreads asking, because it gives Thanatos a hold. Giving in, just a little bit, after holding onto Hermione and the living world, it feels like giving up. It isn't the fault of Thanatos, that feeling, it's in the death god's nature to take life, and it's Harry who's too stubborn for his own good – even – especially, after death.

_Hades is not a prison_. That is not the answer Harry is looking for, but, at least – it is an answer.

Harry, wordless aloud and within his own mind, reaches out a hand as if to shake. The barest touch of Thanatos and his cold fingers brush his own tips, like butterfly kisses. The world around him turns and twists, flickers like a dream, and then Harry is standing at the abyss. Thanatos is beside him, silent and motionless - waiting, and Harry knows with a certainty, that Thanatos has brought him this far, and this is where they part.

Out of the abyss, with sudden luminous clarity, another deathless god appears – like, and unlike, Thanatos.

"What's this, then?" Startlingly, this god apparently prefers to speak aloud. His smile is charming, though there is a mischievous quirk to it that Harry is wary of. This is the sort of god that would lead you down the paved road to Hell, but you'd forget for the fact that you were having a _good time_.

_Hermes_, Thanatos greets with a nod of his head, misty black eyes lingering on Harry, _this one is special. _There is a fondness in Thanatos – so obviously for Harry – which the wizard can't shake off or deny. It fills him with an uncomfortable tightness. Harry will never admit it, but he's always liked the thrill of doing dangerous, reckless, life-ending things, and maybe he's always sensed Thanatos never-knowing before setting eyes on him.

Harry woke from a nightmare to find he'd died peacefully, going in his sleep. It had been, for someone who'd led his life, gallingly improbable; an almost unthinkable end. Harry suspected that was why he was reluctant now to leave Thanatos, god of death, who'd always been circling in life.

"Right, so straight to Hades..?" Asked with quirked head, the wings upon his helmet eerily still. Thanatos says nothing that Harry can hear, aloud or not, merely steps away from the abyss, and vanishes in darkness and mist.

Hermes rolls his eyes in exasperated way – though something about his stance tells Harry that he expected no less from the other god, he still childishly he sticks out his tongue at where Thanatos had last stood.

When his attention turns then to Harry, it's the first time Hermes has really _looked_ at him. His eyes flick to his forehead, framed by his wild bangs is the lighting-bolt mark, and those expressive quicksilver eyes widen almost comically. Harry, amused, and a little relieved, that Hermes is as alive and expressive as Thanatos is not.

Hermes stretches out his hand for Harry to take. It's a gesture that is becoming distressingly familiar. Harry doesn't waste time wondering what is going to happen, he moves as if to swat the hand away, but when the rattle of sound claps around them, Harry finds that Hermes does not let him goes until it settles and stills. Around him is a land unending, no horizon marks the end, all around is dark and moisture. It feels chill and eerie as a cave.

Hermes hovers above the ground on winged sandaled boots, adrift here, as if torn between the world above and the world below and adrift in either.

"You have to choose which one to drink from." Solemnly said, Hermes watches Harry look about himself with an intensity that would worry Harry if he were alive. Harry sees what Hermes was referring to as if it appears after it's said. One source of water is a slow running river; going on it's way untroubled and unthreatening. Its waters murmured and trickled a lullaby over the pebbly shallows, along the shore lush poppies grew.

The second source of water was less obvious, it's a bubbling spring pooling up, cradled in the earth between stone teeth, its waters are still as the ocean – an endless well from which there is no escape if you took a stumble and fell in. The safer source to drink from –he knows - _if_ he is to drink, is the river.

Harry has never been the one to take the safer or easier route in life, why then should that change in death? It doesn't, he ambles over to the pool and squats down, aware that if he shifts his balance wrong- just a little – and he'll topple into the water and drowning might be the least of his worries, but this is still dangerous, and he's dead – so there isn't much he's felt threatened by until now. He glorifies in the risk as his cupped hands reach into the still and icy deep waters, and as he brings his hands to his lips for a sip, his eyes meets Hermes. Something like sorrow is there, and something else that Harry can't name between seeing it and flicking his tongue out to taste the water cupped in his palm.

He _expects_ to taste water, assumes later that the insignificant detail of the water's taste was lost in the sheer strength of _memory_ crashing down on him. Pain blindsides him first, burrowing into his mind, as if some unseen hand seeks to dig up treasure. He's aware of his life; his living years sifting though like sand in an hourglass; distant but present, judged. There's more, _more_ _to him_ then the surface memory of the life he's lived.

He sees that now, understands it, even as it feels as if the earth under his feet that is his identity is being torn away or crumbling beneath him, blindly he reaches out a hand, and white poplar bark seems to catch his hand, holding him steady. He shakes and shivers, and through blurry eyes looks afresh to Hermes, quicksilver blue meeting his green eyes steadily despite the shock to his system he's just taken.

"Heracles, brother…" Hermes greets softly, a gentle smile for his sibling. He can name what was in Hermes eyes before; it was longing – a longing for _Heracles,_ and duel longing that Harry could have chosen otherwise - the river Lethe rather then the pooling deep-spring of Mnemosyne.

"Hermes." Harry says in the acknowledgement of an equal, because he's still 'Harry', but it's like with icebergs, what you see is only a small fraction to compare to what's beneath the surface. And what's more, he _likes_ the name, Heracles was not his name, not at birth and not now – it's a name he must earn by the lips of a goddess, it's who he is – but his name? Not really – no more then Harry can be anymore.

"What has happened?" Harry asks softly, patting the rough bark of the ancient white poplar in silent thanks as he moves away from the depths of Mnemosyne. Hermes drifts closer to him, careful but a presence that Harry can not deny, he spares a nod for the sleeping Mnemosyne –mother of Muses - beneath the pool, who Maia the mother of Hermes had taught him to honor while in her belly.

"Much. Pan is faded." _Dead_, Hermes means but can not say, though his sorrow is like a thing to be felt, going down Harry's throat with raw pain.

Harry takes a gasping breath as if he needs it, as if he isn't dead, dead is dead, but he _feels_ still, feels it like a tide enclosing him. Harry puts his hand to his chest, wondering if he can hold it in; the pain, the sorrow he feels for Hermes, for himself, or if something is broken in him as well. Harry has died a mortal death, as is the fate of any incarnation of _Heracles _reborn on Earth; but in death, he lives again, a god.

_Pan is faded. _

That dreaded word does not mean the same for mortals as it does immortals, dead, a mortal might live again but more likely, find peace, or punishment awaited the evil mortals in the afterlife. In this, the realm of Hades, no 'dead' immortal can be found, for faded gods and goddess leave but an impression of themselves in the world of the living, a echo, a plant, a star – something that calls to their ancient lineage and natures. Rare do those immortals that fade, wake - but it is a rare chance. There is still hope, faint as it is that Pan could waken and live again.

Worse, Harry knows, Pan is _the son_ of Hermes. Harry can say nothing. He thinks things like _not Pan! I'm sorry, my brother, I mourn with you_, a mortal sang about the sorrow of a parent burying a child; it's unthinkable, the pain, the loss, of immortal parent parting from immortal child. It's more then many could be so burdened with and survive intact - sane.

Hermes doesn't have a choice _but_ to go on - he is immortal, a god, an _Olympian_, the son of Zeus.

Hermes leans down, acknowledging shared pain, his forehead touching Harry's, their heads bowed and hair mingling like a curtain of dark. Faces hidden away from any watchers (and in the Underworld there always are), they mourn in peace a part and apart of the silence that surrounds them – in a place of death and dreams and wrongs righted, and right rewarded.

The question is in the end, will Hermes fade.

It is an answer Harry dreads the resolve of. Hermes seems to shake himself awake first, drawing away – his hand still held forth in offering.

"Come," Hermes says, offering hand and his solemn smile, "we've much to tell you, Hades and I." Harry takes his hand, at ease, he blinks and he finds the banks of Acheron, who's raised out of the river water to greet him. Charon sits legs crossed on his skiff, waiting impatiently, and his foot tapping to an unheard beat.

"Well it's about time!" Charon exclaims with a grin as Acheron stirs to glance upward.

"Heracles," Acheron murmurs, "Ascalaphus greets you." The screech of an owl in the distance assures Harry that the river god speaks the truth. Harry nods a greeting to the grave god, there is a long understanding between them; Persephone had tasted of the pomegranate, and Ascalaphus alone had born witness against her, Demeter in fury had turned the boy into a spotted lizard and buried him beneath a rock. Heracles had freed him.

Not that it had done poor Ascalaphus much good, he'd been turned later into a screech owl, Hades' bird. Ascalaphus bore him no grudge, and Acheron was glad simply to his only son, and his favor extended to the only immortal who lived a mortal life when the people needed a hero and died to become a god; Harry.

"Come on then!" Charon says cheerfully, beckoning as if to an old friend with his gnarled hand.

"Up you go." Hermes lifts Harry onto the skiff, where Harry sees the oar, Charon grins with a gesture as if familiar to Harry's way of thinking (and perhaps he is, however many times he's died and passed into Charon's boat, he's lived again as a god) he lifts it up and dips it into the deep waters of Acheron, and without a word or motion, they are off so swiftly there isn't any need for the slack sails of the black boat. They leave Hermes quickly behind, but Harry doesn't fear, he knows he'll see Hermes on the other side.

"There you are lad, he favors you still." Charon pats him on the back roughly, but Harry keeps his seat.

"So what was the last life like?" Harry knows this to be a familiar and interested question, these stories of his lives – perhaps Charon alone remembers them all, Harry is certainly grateful to the old man who sits bent behind him with a listening and eager ear.

"I was a wizard, this time, with wands and magic and friends." Harry says his eyes on the waters of Acheron, wondering if the rippling face he sees is his own or the river gods. It does not pain him to speak, and Harry has only to close his eyes and think of Acheron to know the truth – this is the river-lake of pain, and it is Acheron who takes his pain away now.

"No wife this time, I hope?" Charon prods with a wily grin; Harry shakes his head in the negative.

"Good, good, Hebe will be glad." His _goddess wife,_ how could Harry forget her? He feels like a fool.

"A child perhaps..?" Charon asks with raised brow, his eyes on the distance. The shore approaches, and two tall figures wait.

"No, no to both…" Harry says softly, and the old man puts a hand to Harry's heart, wrapping him in a hug.

"I'm sorry to see you so soon, what a lonely life you lived this time. May the next be kinder; take care, my old friend." The words are spoken in a whisper at his ear, then Charon lets him go, flashing two obolus tucked between his fingers with a grin.

Harry steps off the skiff, and almost falls onto his face if not for someone steadying him. Harry looks up into a face that is solemn, that can be severe and kind in turn, but smiles now for him.

"Brother." Persephone greets him with a kiss on his cheek.

"Queen Persephone." Harry teases with a grin, his sister huffs and her eyes roll skyward at the title. It feels familiar and ritual; Hades laughs and reaches out to half hug Harry to his side.

"Ah, come nephew, Cerberus waits to see you." _Family_, Harry thinks, and relaxes against Hades side. It was at Persephone's request that Heracles had spared Menoitios who had tired to avenge the blood of cattle spilled to feed the dead, for that Hades had granted Cerberus in his care if he could do so without weapons. Theseus, he had saved, and Pirithous left to suffer at his sister's wrath at being thought some maiden to kidnap unwillingly.

For the life of Queen Alcestis, who had agreed to die in place of her husband Admetos, Heracles had fought against Thanatos, until Persephone had bidden him to give her back. Only once had Hades stood against Heracles, and that had been at Pylos, Hades still bore the wound on his shoulder, it hung free of cloth, as if a trophy reminder. Only strange Hades would think such a thing.

Cerberus' three heads barked in welcome at his approach, with lion's claws and waging serpent's tail, a mane of fifty snakes reared up at his approach. The hound bowed downward, humbled again at the sight of him, something in him hurt at the sight of this – he raised his hands, palms peacefully displayed, and Cerberus caught sight of the gesture and winked with three eyes.

Harry had never been sure if behind those fierce eyes was a mind to match his own, but it was clear that there were no hard feelings to be had between them only a respect that would linger evermore.

Past the gates, Hermes waited with Hecate torch in hand. At his approach, a shy head peeks from behind Hecate's skirts, and Harry would be dead indeed not to recognize his own daughter.

"Macaria." The girl grinned wide enough to split her face and raced to hug him about the middle; her dark hair fell like a shadow about her shoulders.

"Father, come to the Isle of the Blest at last?" Harry kissed the crown of her head, and knew this a familiar ritual. He held her close so long as he could.

"You know the Fates are not as kind as that." Persephone touched the girl's shoulder, sorrow lingering in her deep eyes. This daughter of his was the duel daughter of his sister's heart, sacrificed to her by oracles demand so Eurystheus would fall.

"She is in good hands, son of Zeus. They love her as if she is their own daughter, for she gave up her life for them." Hecate's words echoed the thoughts that raced within his own mind, and Harry nodded gratefully to her for confirming it again; as she always would if he needed to hear those words.

"I'm so sorry, Macaria." Harry whispered in her ear what was in his heart; Deianeira's daughter shook her head bravely, defiantly.

"Do not be. I am happy." Macaria regretted nothing, for like Heracles once she made up her mind her choice was a fixed thing that would not be swayed.

"Hades, you know my father's mind better then I, so answer me truthfully, why did Thanatos take me as he did?" Harry asked of his uncle, Macaria tensed in his arms but Hades only sighed as if he'd been expecting this question all along.

"Only when you are dead do you know who you are, with the death of Pan the Olympians have never needed you more, hero of the people, the boy who lived. You have to go back above, and know who you are, but Zeus has declared that you will not walk above as the living or god. You will be dead, for the dead do not age. Your mortal age was perilously close to sixteen." Hades sounds regretful enough, but his body language gives nothing away.

"A prophesy?" Harry asks his eyes go cold.

"Yes, would you like to know it?" Hecate asks softly, the flames of her torch flicker in the depths of the Underworld as if inviting shadows and doubt.

"No." Harry hisses, and Macaria flinches, laying a calming hand on his shoulder.

"Hermes, do give our father my regards –tell Hebe…" Harry falters, and he closes his eyes and breathes before he makes a mistake he knows he'll regret. Hermes has done nothing to earn his ire.

"Heracles," Hermes steps forward, hand outstretched pleadingly, "my son, Luke – Kronos possesses him…" Hermes couldn't finish, and Harry didn't blame him, Pan was one loss – but to loose two sons in so short a span of time? Immortals remembered very keenly, and felt more deeply then mortals gave them credit for.

"Save him, if you may." Hermes finished bitterly, flinching away before Harry could say a word, gone in the time it took to blink.

"He'll be back, maybe." Hades reassured absently, patting Harry's shoulder.

"In the meantime, you'll meet my son." Harry caught the distant look on Persephone's face, but it wasn't at Hades words, for Harry recognized the look as something similar to his silent conversations with Thanatos. Someone was speaking to her, and Harry had a good idea who.

"Mother is coming." Persephone confirmed, and Hades turned his attention to her, his look dismayed.

"Where?" Hades asked, already looking hassled.

"The throne room, come with me, brother?" Persephone held out her hand for Harry to take, and with a sigh Macaria stepped away as Harry took it. They faded from sight, leaving Hecate and Macaria in their wake, Hecate wrapped an arm about the slender girl with a smile.

"Come along, there is work to be done." Macaria's eyes flashed black, and she smiled back.

"I think my father will side with us, Lady Titan." Hecate tilted her head in silent agreement.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Persephone sat on a throne of silver, and Hades upon one of bones. Demeter between them broke the silent conversation to speak, and that was when Harry noticed the Furies watching carefully two boys. One was slim and had something of a dolphin's swimmer shape, the black hair and sea blue eyes marked him as a son of Poseidon. There was a betrayed look to him.

Kneeling to Hades was a younger boy, slim and ill kept; who Harry felt was his uncle's son. Hades had never been an attentive father, but Harry did not expect _this_. Of the pair of them, Persephone was the more nurturing sort, but it was clear she cared not a bit for Nico di Angelo, son of Hades.

Persephone leaves with Demeter, and when the children are gone – Percy to a cell and Nico to his room, Harry can't hold back his questions.

"What is the meaning of this?" Hades settles back in his throne with a sigh.

"That boy, Percy, he seeks the Styx." Hades cradles his head in his hand and watches Harry carefully for a reaction.

"You're going to let him get there." Harry accuses, green eyes a flash of fading lighting.

"Yes." Hades answers with a nod, when Harry turns away from him in disgust, his lips tilt in a wicked smile.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"You're walking the wrong way." Tisiphone hissed, the Fury getting in Harry's way. Harry had been in the Underworld often enough to know the way to the river Styx. Harry though of looking aside from her, ignoring her, but that would be a foolish thing indeed to do in the Underworld, where Harry was at the mercy of Hades, her master. In a way, Harry owed Tisiphone, for with Cereberus once taken, it had been she who'd guarded the gates.

"What do you know?" Harry snapped, guessing that if she bothered with speaking to him there would be something worth listening to.

"Think hero, if the Underworld is so changed; what the world above must be?" Megaera murmured, leaning against her sister; wings spread as if to prevent his escape or offering him to carry him aloft to show him.

"Gaea stirs." Alecto purred, reminding him of whose daughter she was - Harry stood very still, the blood pounding in his ears the only sound he could name.

"Phaethon…" The rest of Harry's words caught in his throat. It was as if he feared speaking that name, here, would wake something, and that was exactly true.

"That son of Helios hurt Gaea with the Sun Chariot, this is true, and she sleeps still to heal what damage he dealt her. She is waking, there is no Phaethon to force her asleep again." Megaera taunted, it was clear where her loyalties lay.

"The question is, Heracles son of Zeus – with whom do you stand?" Tisiphone murmured with a hiss in his ear. Then she was gone with her sisters, and Harry stood alone.

Harry closed his eyes and breathed, considering where he was at – the Underworld, realm of Hades, firstborn son of Kronos and Rhea, children themselves of Gaea herself. Demeter had stood beside Zeus and Poseidon simply for her children by them, but Persephone was a nature goddess like Demeter – they _knew_ the pain of Gaea, felt it as keenly as Pan had – and Pan had died from the earth's wilderness being used up by people.

With it the way things Harry knew – and Hercules had known – were lost. By serving to protect the people, he was not blind to his own hand in the work that mortal's had done. When nothing was left to tell the lore of magic and gods, what then would be left of earth?

What would be worth living for, if all old lore were lies and only fact, cold and calculating, remained?

Would it be a world worth inheriting?

"I must save something." Gaea speaks, and Harry by his silence agrees.


	8. Choices Divine, HP x Percy Jackson

Choices Divine

_Harry Potter/Percy Jackson: son of Zeus._

Born in the midst of a storm, the babe came into this world in defiance to its own father's law. Zeus bowed his head, watching with a small smile playing upon his lips. Life, after all, had found its way from his seed. He could be but proud of that. Eileithyia had been sent by Hera to aid in the birth of his youngest, and sat now beside him. Hera was silent, even as the sky rolled and shifted in its confusion. It was not of either of their making, but of the coming babe.

"Two choices do you have, husband mine." Hera spoke softly, her attention on her daughter - Eileithyia at the door, let in by James.

"Thank you for coming so swiftly." James speaks, unsuspecting that it is a goddess of birth to whom he addresses, disguised as but a midwife. She steps inside without hesitation, knowing where to look for the unborn babe even without a glance about the room, she smiles. Lily smiles back, not suspecting the smile is for her babe yet born.

"I would not miss this." Eileithyia assures him, absently, her whole attention upon the coming birth of her half sibling. She goes to Lily, and the moment that she touches the mortal, the birth eases. There will be no harm to mother or babe, and pain flees from the body swiftly with the coming birth.

"To keep the boy among them…" Hera favored this choice, for if raised among witches and wizards, no child of Zeus would be honored for but what was their own making and choices.

"Welcome little brother." Eileithyia murmurs into the just born babe's ear, kissing him on his brow and both cheeks to greet him into the world.

"Or bring him up among us." Hera spoke softly, unseen.


	9. Royal Blood, HPx Percy Jackson

Royal Blood

_Harry Potter/Percy Jackson: marked by a king._

Marked with a lighting bolt upon his brow, no wizard or witch remembered what it meant...that they made a grave mistake, giving up the babe born in their midst: putting him upon a doorstep, abandoned, even after Zeus had made his boldest claim upon a son of his in recent memory. Zeus is of a proud and royal line, and no son of his had ever been but treated as a king.

Harry, son of Zeus, was marked with a lightning bolt upon his brow. He had the wildly untamed hair of his father, and his mother's wicked green eyes. And none dared claim that his mother was other then Hera herself, Queen of the Heavens. Though Harry himself knew in his heart of hearts, a secret he dared not speak, that it was otherwise, raised up on the heights of Olympus, he could scarce claim that he was divine anything, though the blood of Zeus ran though him, it ran tainted, it ran red.


	10. Against The Natural Order, HPxJasonGrace

Against The Natural Order_  
_

_Harry, son of Pluto/Jason, son of Jupiter, everyone they meet is appalled at their love life._

"You don't know me, do you?" His hair is black and his eyes are green and piercing. Jason thinks this is the strangest boy he's ever met. Not for any trait of feature, or his face, it's how everyone else seems blind to the likes of him. Jason stands in front of him, numb to the world, but he sees it – he just can't care. He is more important, and no one seems to be seeing them. Literally not, worse, far worse is that he thinks he's the _only one_ seeing this eerie boy. Anyone else who looks this way, their eyes sort of pass this boy by, seeing through him. Jason takes a breath. This is wrong; it twists in his gut, cold like snakes.

"Who are you?" Jason asks it, but what he really means is_: who am I. what makes me so great that you frown at me, that you know who I am and care when – when no one else seems to even know_.

"That doesn't matter. What matters is I've found you." Green eyes flick over everyone, measuring them. As if Jason's thief might be around here even now. Jason feels as if he's seen this boy do this before, many times. As if anyone could be a threat. Jason snorts, but he doesn't know why, only that the idea of harm being brought upon Harry….Harry! Jason grins, knowing this boy's name is for sure the first thing he knows about, about whom he is. It's right.

Green eyes flick to him, amused, and Jason realizes, with a flush, that he'd said Harry's name aloud. He isn't _supposed_ to do that. He doesn't know _why not_, but it is not to be done. It's not somehow allowed, as if it's a secret that they know each other and are… friendly.

"That's right." Harry affirms, soft and confident. As if he knew all along Jason could do this, could remember. It's a warm feeling that fills him up, as if he's going to choke. Jason realizes he's missed this, missed Harry. And he didn't even know it until this relief fills him up with hope. Seeing Harry is like being home, if ever Jason has had a home.

"What's happened?" Jason asks Harry, because if anyone ought to know, it's Harry. Just like that, Jason knows he and Harry are more then merely friends, they are loyal to each other together and apart, they are _legionary_. Stronger together then apart.

"Juno doesn't like you." Harry prompts, though there is a twist in his lips. It's suddenly as if they've had this conversation before, Jason finds words tumbling out eagerly from his lips. He doesn't know what he's going to say before he's heard it.

"Duh." Juno is someone he's feared all his life. She wants his life, but Harry…Harry made a deal with, with….

"Pluto!" He exclaims, like a blessing. He feels like weeping with relief. He's safe, there is something sure and stable in his life, and it begins and ends with this boy. Harry is the only son of Pluto, Proserpina willingly gave blessing upon the union of Pluto and Lily, for a son to be born…and they, son of Pluto and son of Jupiter, together they are something obscene.

Harry will not have it any other way and Harry is all but an immortal god in his own way. For never will Pluto allow harm to come upon his child.

"Bingo boyo." Harry winks, and warps an arm about Jason's neck, and his skin is hot and he wants to press in closer. It's a relief to feel this familiarity, like something – someone – meaning more then his memory is returned to him with this embrace willingly given. Harry chuckles, dark and full of promise, _later, later _his heartbeat seems to say.

"Believing in me?" Harry asks, as if he doesn't already know that Jason would never willingly leave his side. That he hates Juno for what she has done in parting them.

"Always." Jason swears, and they are elsewhere, shadows swallowing them up. He isn't afraid, for he has always traveled this way with Harry. When he opens his eyes, it is the Underworld he sees and knows best. A hallway gothic and arching up into the air as if the earth does not press down upon them, it leads to Harry's bedroom, the door always open. They strand together in the courtyard, where a fountain stands, above water trickles in circles and dancing patterns, changing and forgetful, bellow the water is gathered in a bowl that Jason can't see the bottom of. Harry takes the goblet that sits on the rim, as if he had planned this, and fills the goblet with the water that is solemn and deep.

"Drink…." Harry offers - Jason swallows down his fear at this. Never has he eaten or drunk anything in the Underworld, his own father is Jupiter, sky father, and he loves the feel of air about him as he flies. It has to be his choice, as it was Proserpina's own once. He takes it though, because he trusts Harry in this, and he drinks and its bitter water, and he doesn't know what he'd been expecting when he closed his eyes.

He opens them, and Harry still means the same to him, but all else has shifted. He knows what he's done, what he's going to do. Knows that the water he drank was Moneta's gift, of memory.

"Thanks." Jason says, with a grin.

"What, my son, will you do now?" Proserpina asks, her eyes glinting in the shadows as she strides forward, her hands reaches absently for Harry's head – her hand wrapping about his neck, her fingers playing in his black hair. It is a gesture that reminds Jason that Harry isn't his alone. It's just as Proserpina intended, for Harry is not Pluto's heir alone – he is _hers_. This is a reminder he must grit his teeth through and be still to stay sane. To have them on his side is what he _wants_, what Harry _needs_, they are a fierce and unyielding pair, deaf to prayers and unappeased by sacrifices, they are the harnessers of death. The King and Queen who rule here, and bow their heads to no rule but their own, to them even Ceres, even Jupiter, cede to their rights.

"I would have words with Juno, mother, for what she stole from Jason, and stole Jason again – from me." Harry has his father's sense of possession and temper. He is a force of his own will, and so long as Proserpina and Pluto stand at his side and smile, he will always be.

"Then go and speak with Juno." Proserpina smiles, and it is proud, as she kisses Harry's brow. The mark there is of lightning, for Harry's name is Fulmen.


	11. Mother May I, HPxPercy Jackson

Mother May I

_Abby Ebon_

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Note: a 1st Person Harry Potter (which, my god, I haven't written in since _Dehctiws_!)

So up on my profile was a poll, there for some time, about the Greek God parent of Harry.

Hades won.

Then Percy Jackson made Harry's life -uhm - worse.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Percy began his books, as it all seemed to happen to him.

That you've read them – and know of his writing enough to find mine, well you ought then to by now know that I urged him on to start them. He was reluctant, but then no hero is ever known these days who does not sell himself to a publishing agent. As well, he had admired mine – which you might guess that I _did not_ write out from start to finish, but left those seven books to Ms. Rowling to finish as she saw fit.

Who best to tell of my beginnings but the daughter of the Muse Kleiô? There is – you'll see plainly now - more reasons then one that she chose that middle _K_, for those that know the ancient signs of my immortal bloodline it's plain to see where she gets those gifts of word so like a spell cast world wide.

So it is with the Muse born. The joke, though, is on me. I'd let her have my journals to do with what she willed, and claimed not a cent for my own name. I'll not endanger her, you see –poor friend that would make me. My fame I give her freely. She spends it – this I admit freely - more wisely then me. It is in the line of Hades to hoard the world's riches and do nothing with them.

There is one point we do not agree – at the ending, she wanted something better for me then the doom of Tykhê's favor.

She wanted a happy ending, so wrote it to her own will, never mind the facts I face to this day: the history. Ginny, you see, is like a sister to me, and a pour wife she would make for me. Annabeth explained it to poor Ms. Rowling like this: I am like stone, and Ginny has a spirit like her red hair – of flame and freedom. I would smother her, she would be like ashes, and cold as the dead I may speak with freely.

If I do not sound as you think I should, doomed hero that I am, then I can not help but laugh. For the joke is on me, my fame precedes me, and fickle Tykhê yet makes mockery of me in her favor. She has a great and terrible destiny for me, which yet overshadows my every step and breath.

I do not know what it is, and there is no prophesy speaker that would say a word to me. No, not even Apollo would meet my eyes if I asked.

I have learned not to ask.

Not even ghosts, who know all things past and future, dare to speak for fear my mother's wrath. Now, you must understand, I am Hades own son – I am Harry Potter, half-blood born between pure blood wizard and muggle born witch.

So my mortal father thought.

I died, and did not die. I lived for seventeen years, and it was a lie. It was my life. It was, what my father calls, a test. My test – I do not ask him if I passed it or failed it. At times I do not dare. At times I do not care. I am what I am and must endure it for eternity. I can not die as I am and will always be immortal. My blood is golden ichor and I drink red nectar – ambrosia by any other name still tastes of iron.

James Potter was his name, but Lily Potter was but my immortal mother's fickle fantasy. I was not meant to be. If you know anything of Greek myth, remember this much when it concerns me – the immortal gods rarely keep to their true shape or gender when they walk the earth. There is reason for this as all earth is the domain of my great grandmother, Gaea.

All Olympians have grave reason to fear her, even the likes of my mother-father, so Hades walked the world in a mortal woman's form and seduced a man of Hecate's magical linage. Hecate is then my grandmother many times over though the Potter pure-bloods, under the name Persêis (who gave way this name to Persephone) for the magical race sprang up from her sons and daughters with Helios: so you may know their names, Aeetes of Colchis island of Aia near the Black Sea, Perses of Persia, Pasiphae the Queen of Crete whom Minos wed, Circe of isle Aiaia. Pity the fools who follow Greek mythology to know that linage past Medea, for it is into the line of kings and wizards which they seek.

Why Hades did this, I've yet grown bold enough to ask, but Hecate has but laughed and kissed my cheek. There is no other wizard like me, you see, so I am lonely, but she loves me like a mother. She, you see, thinks it's _funny_ as can be. My existence disproves centuries of mortal reasoning, that the King of the Underworld, being a god of the dead, can not produce offspring. For obvious reasons, Hades does not like me to tell of how I came about being born, least of all think of it. Painful both physically, and, I think – to his pride. If I were to climb Olympus and declare that I was the son of his body (not seed), Hades would not thank me.

I have no death wish, so I do not.

I will not tell of how Hades became my father, but how Hecate became my mother.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Alecto." Her name rolls off my tongue like the curse it was meant to be. She only smiles at me. The funny thing about a Fury's smile is it's likeness to a shark, full of teeth and threat.

"Ah, my lovely little wizard…" She sighs, as if under my spell – she isn't, it's a joke to her – she reaches out to touch me, but I flinch away before her fingers tangle into my hair. I was not fool enough to let her get close to me. She would take my hair and drag my face into hers. Furies, I've found, have no sense of personal space. Or if she did, it was up close enough to get a little nibble and bite in.

I wasn't fond of the idea of being but food.

"Why are you out of Hades's sight?" I sneered it, as he'd promised me certain things, Hades had. Promised on the Styx, King he may be of the Underworld where that loathed river flows, but even he would not break a vow given into her keeping willingly. The silver branch between us was this – I would never say how I truly came to be born – and he would not claim me as one of his own. I would never have worried before about Hades taking me up as his son by blood, if not for Percy Jackson and promises the Olympians must now keep. Hades has now thrown his lot in with his brothers, and must submit to that vow, and it tangles between us, a web I do not see the end of.

"I'm to be your mother now!" Alecto purrs it in a way that shudders along my spine and leaves my skin cold. Alecto does not know if she would rather eat me, or fuck me, and frankly I'd rather she never get the chance to choose. Between us, I know which would loose.

"What?" It's a brittle word, dry and croaking, barely breaking from between my lips.

"Surely, surely, you do not think that your mixed blood can remain _unclaimed_? Percy Jackson has the word of the Olympians, and like or not, Hades is keeping among their company. So mine you must be – or chose another mother, but there aren't many who would agree." Her lips gleam in that grin, painted as red as blood – if it isn't blood. Alecto's sisters - Megaera and Tisiphone - I like less then she. Persephone must never know of me.

"Hecate." I say, and it is bold and a bad idea. I know it as soon as Alecto's eyes widen and she flees. I remember where I am only then. I hear panting; a black dogs's welcome, and turn back my head to look. There she is, sanding solemn and dark, three faced and looking straight at me. I turn to face her; to do anything else would be an insult. It would be most unwise to insult her, Titan born she may be, but Zeus honors her still, even given her passing preference for Kronos.

The black dog at her side is none other then the Trojan Queen Hecuba. About her feet slinks the polecat, Galinthias, the nurse of Hercules's mother who Eileithyia transformed. She had pitied them, and made them her most powerful familiars.

"I? You would choose I for your mother, I who am daughter of Perses the destroyer and Asteria of the stars, who call Leto my aunt, who laid with Helios as Perseis fair and begot the race of wizards and witches? Mother I am of immortal Pasiphae and Circe, of Aeetes and Perses no more. That name I gave up when my son murdered his brother, and Medea the Black - my granddaughter was made to be an avenger. Think well, little wizard, I am Hecate, goddess – and mother of magic. If I take you for my son, it will be more then merely trickery." Words of destiny, I have learnt not to fear any.

"Mother." I say, and so it must be.


	12. Mother's Son, HPxPercy Jackson

Mother's Son

_Harry Potter/Percy Jackson : to war the gods go. _

(_Okay, okay, you know when you really want something, but you really should not have it? You don't have enough money, it's not healthy, and you've got an addictive personality- so if you do it this once, you know you'll live to do it again, and regret it not the least bit?_

_Yes, all three, by Muses above – I give in!_

_This does not help me in the least._

_Enjoy! *smiles*_)

Harry Potter was _furious_. Thunder roared, lighting danced, it was a storm the likes of which are rare to be seen by likes of mortal eyes before. It had but one source, and Harry was it, the heart and eye of the storm.

"Father…." Harry drawled it, a greeting that was as low and dangerous as the thunder's approach, rumbling out of his throat, as if his own father is a threat. It is his only greeting for the black haired man, whose hair is wispy and wind blown, as if he'd gotten out of bed and never brushed it. It was a similarity between father and son.

"Harry." Zeus's smile is, for once, strained.

"Surely you do not seek to be but one of them?" Ares protested mutely, for Hera's sake, who was yet seated silently between Harry and Zeus. His mother had made not one word of protest since Harry had approached Zeus, for an appeal that was as much demand as plea. Ares did not like that Harry was denied his place among them, as Olympian as any had right to claim – that he was hidden high up and not let down to walk among mortals – as any immortal had right to do. That Harry would then ask to deny any claim to immortality – Ares had never foreseen.

"Surely I do." Harry demanded, eyes never straying from Zeus.

"Am I not my mother's son?" Harry pressed, when Zeus did not speak or stir. At this, it was Hera who spoke. The storm about them grew eerie and silent, a respectful shadow of itself.

"Do you deny that I have raised you, milked you from my own breast, if not born of my body – are you not my son, Harry?" Ares shut his eyes, pained. Athena, beside him, made a sound like she had been wounded, a protest. Harry met her bovine brown eyes, black and glittering like wet stars.

"I am the son of Zeus, am I but a _bastard_." Athena had told him this, Ares knew – and hated her for it. Harry did not deserve it. Hera bowed her head, and Ares saw tears on his mother's cheeks. Dionysus, himself half mortal and another son of Zeus, shook his head in mute denial. None though spoke, for Hera would speak first and only Zeus could speak before her.

"So be it. With my blessing, go to Earth and be but half-god – as you claim you are, until such time as you can claim again to be a son of mine." There is wrath in her, as much fury as any storm can claim, but sorrow as deep as the night sky. Harry bows his head to her, in thanks – or agreement, or reverent apology to do as he must and not ask for forgiveness. It is then, as Hera turns her back upon him, that he lets out a cry.

To be a god and immortal, and then not, is a painful thing to deny. A dreadful thing to endure – it goes on for a lifetime, until Harry is but a half-god, born again, a boy. He looks up to see them all staring, as if he is the god and they are all but mortal, in their eyes they plead for Harry to take it back, to appeal again. Hera would give into him, loves him – only that he's hurt her can be made up for.

"Cowards…." Harry hisses at them, his words as treacherous as his snake green eyes. He is in pain, Apollo knows- more pain then any Olympian could say to take with ease.

"You would hide away, upon the heights of Olympus, while all your children suffer and die. Damn you all. I choose to take your fight, father and siblings – to Gaia, and stand at the side of those who might die in your hiding. You'll find me there, if you care to look. Or perhaps I will entertain Hades before spring's end." Demeter looks to Persephone, who holds her chin high, though there is a flush that paints her cheeks, and knowledge of what Harry means glints in her eyes.

Harry smiles to see it, knowing the strike is true. He bows, mockingly, to lovely Persephone, who is titled Queen of the Underworld by her high birth alone. It is Artemis who first holds her head high and meets Harry eye to eye, and offers her hand to Harry. It is for Harry to take or not.

"Come, brother. We have work to do. I would not see my Hunters become but the hunted." Harry takes that slender white hand and stands up from where he is on his knees. He pants for breath, as if he can not get enough, as if he can die from lack of it. Ares remembers that now he can. Ares sighs, and stirs. He steps foreword, a grim smile on his lips as his eyes meet those of Zeus.

"Forgive me my fondness for my own brother, father. As you once bid me when I was but a babe and the Titans would have struck you down, I go to war - and I take all who would call themselves of my host with me." Ares scans the shadows, and they are there. Like blood that seeps from the foundation upon which Olympus stands, those who shed blood and have shed blood stand now to side with Ares. Enyo his twin, who answers to none but him (if she wills to)- cries out, for bloodlust and ruin of his enemies, to summon to their side all who would answer her cry.

Enyalios answers at once, his howl as warlike as his name. He is his mother's son. Eris, great goddess of strife, stirs to sing – she the very daughter of Nyx, and if ever Ares doubted that he was right, this settles his worry. Eris is as old as any who can claim Titan blood, born before Gaia herself; it is she whom Gaia ought to fear of all the old ones. Her black wings unfold, and once she is so stirred, her children born for war, do not hesitate in answer: the Hysminai scream out for a fight, the Makhai beat upon their shields, and the Androktasiai one and all raised up their swords.

Polemus only grins when Ares pauses upon him; so Alala's war cry is like a blessing. Kydoimos tilts his head back to listen, lazy and sure of what he hears – battle is coming, for he is its herald. He looks last to his sons by Aphrodite, Deimos who bows with a wink to his whim, his hair like a golden mane and Phobos who does not even hesitate to summon the horses, burning Aithôn, bright Phlogeus, and whinnying Conabus.

Last of all, Ares looks to Aphrodite, hesitating, it is she who sighs and smiles - as if his gesture of rebellion is romantic. Aphrodite has warred before, and it would do Zeus well to remember she is a daughter of Heaven.

"War." She says softly, agreement – for his sake, of for the sake of their sons Deimos and Phobos.

Eros and Himeros, twins born by her alone, look both to Anterôs – Ares son, who sided with his mother and Harmonia when he had had to choose, while Deimos and Phobos had taken to Ares. He only nods to his father, but it is enough to know that Aphrodite will not go alone to side with him. Aphrodite takes Ares outstretched hand, and when Apollo only bows to Zeus before taking up his side to Artemis's back, it's enough – he knows it must be.

It is all he has managed to summon for Harry's sake. Ares looks to Dionysus – to Hermes – to Hephaestus - all lovers of Aphrodite, all his brothers. They do not meet his eyes. Athena meets his eyes, but looks to Zeus – to Hephaestus, and shakes her head. She shall try from within to win him their support, but she will not go to war at his word alone. Demeter sneers as she does at all things to do with war, and Poseidon but looks on with longing. Hera, his own mother, is absent, and Zeus will be no help to him.

Burning red eyes meet his, boldly, as Hestia smiles.

Eris opens her black eyes, and they are gone, snatched from high Olympus itself.


	13. Master of Death, HP

_Master of Death_

_*Odd sort of idea, where Harry "master of death" had died and become death. If this makes sense.*  
_

Harry Potter had put the ring with its black stone about his neck, so the curse would not bring him harm; it rested in a pouch against his breast. The cloak was thrown hastily about his shoulders, his unseen fingers gripped, white knuckled, and the wand in his hand – unbroken and dark strained wood. Stained by both its growth from the earth beneath his feet, and stained again by blood as it was passed from the conquered to the conquerors.

This day, there would be war.

This day he was death.


	14. Thrice Named, Percy JacksonxHP

Thrice Named

*Following the genealogy Greek myth gives us is difficult enough, but once you realize that _men have turned into women_ and _given birth_ – such as the case of Tiresias (turned into a woman for harming coupling snakes/insulting women) Sipriotes (a male hunter turned by Artemis into a woman after seeing her bathe) and Caenis (a woman loved by Poseidon who by request was turned into a indestructible male warrior: Caeneus).*

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"This way is clear, sister Queen Persephone." Hermes does not need to tell her this, for she is Hades's Queen and this is her realm as much as it ever was Hades own for all that the Underworld bares his name. Persephone says nothing as she follows Hermes forward beyond the river Acheron, leaving behind the watching Charon.

"Goddess..." Persephone heeded the greeting of the dead woman, pausing as she stood at the threshold between Underworld and Earth. Closer came the spirit sensing her acknowledgment, hair as red as a rose, eyes as green as the living things that awaited her above.

"I _know_ Hades." Persephone pressed her lips together, fingers digging into the skin of her palms. There was only one way a women '_knew'_ Hades before dying, and the bowed head of the mortal woman was as good as any confession of sin.

Hermes waited for her, unheeding of the spirits he had led here after Thanatus had cut the locks from their heads, ending their life on earth with the threads of life severed.

"My lady, my son – please, I beg you goddess, save him." The sniveling shade pleaded down at the goddess's feet, and Persephone sighed as she knelt to pull the poor soul up. It would do no good for Persephone to loath the ghost of this woman; who would most certainly forget herself before Persephone stepped foot again in the Underworld.

It was her task, as Queen of the Underworld, to see the dead pass on from the Underworld, into the world anew. She would not begrudge this mortal loving and losing her child, though the father was Hades – _her_ husband.

"A son, you say? He must be a healthy boy, to have killed you in the birthing." It was usually the way mortal women died these days, baring the children of careless immortals. Persephone felt pity well up in her, looking at the weeping ghost.

"No, my lady, you do not understand – my son, he will die where he is – my sister was never a friend to me, less so when I became what I am." Persephone saw then, that this ghostly woman was a witch, her color was pearl white, but she was almost alive so aware was she.

"What is your name?" Persephone asked, and as if in answer, out of the shadows of the path came Hecate torch in hand. Hermes bowed to the silent Titan, who made no gesture of acknowledgement, for her focus was as it should be -on the spirit and the Queen of the Dead. Hermes departed, and only then did the spirit speak again.

"Lily Evans…my son, he is Harry James Potter – named for his false father." The spirit breathed soft as a summer whisper, with eyes only for Hecate. Her name was an offering to this, the goddess of her people.

Hecate was fond of her people, and as the only companion of Persephone who braved the Underworld every year with her, Persephone was fonder still of her often silent friend.

Persephone smiled and kissed the spirits brow filled with the fondness of her kind though the witch-goddess Hecate.

"Go now, we shall see that your son is well." Lily sighed and was gone from sight, her fears relieved, a soul put to rest. It was a job well done, and Hecate offered her hand silently for Persephone to take, who did not hesitate.

Above the world was still and silent, the world, her mother Demeter, waiting her return. She stood at a crossroads, and paused – Persephone heard the barking of dogs and shivered, they promised blood to be spilled this night.

"The boy…?" Persephone asked of Hecate, who had in turn never asked anything of her, and did not ask now. Yet it was within Persephone's reach to give much to her one brave friend. Hecate was of the proud Titan race, and would never seek what was not hers to grasp.

"Will die this night, my lady, for his father's people he is marked as a savoir and sacrifice, from his mother's sister there is only hate." Sorrow lurked deep in the depths of Hecate's voice, and Persephone's fingers gripped hers the harder for hearing it. In sympathy, and for the sake of their friendship, Persephone would do this one thing – would save the son of her husband, who knew no loyalty to her bed.

"Take us to his side, my dear Hecate." In a breath they were gone from the still night air, and when Persephone stepped forward into a closet under the stairs, a dying babe lay there. He was too weak even to cry, and his breathing was labored as he shivered, but vivid green eyes watched the Queen of the Underworld approach as if it was daylight.

If such a babe could seem expectant, or resigned, it was this one's fate.

Persephone simply smiled, brushing back his thick locks of black hair, and there found the mark of Zeus.

"See how his father tries to hide him from me, my friend?" Persephone spoke to silent Hecate who waited; her finger lightly brushed the babies' brow. At her touch the mark grew dark, like the earth rising up.

Persephone took the boy up in her arms, and offered him her breast to suckle on; she was the Queen of the Underworld, and daughter of the life-giving Demeter, who saw that man was fed at harvest and knew the sustenance of the earth. It was in Persephone to give life, to judge it, and to take it away. She would give this child milk from her own body, and he would be hers by growing blood and bone by that milk.

"What will you say, Persephone?" Hecate asked when Persephone turned to stand beside her, and took the Titan goddesses hand again.

"I will not lie, Hades has had a child – and he is mine." Persephone smile offered all the mysteries of the earth.

"And you will name him…?" Hecate wondered aloud, her eyes upon the babe at her friend's breast.

"Is for you to say, Curotrophus." Persephone allowed as was right, for the boy was of Hecate's blood, and Hecate had played the part of his nurse before this night. No child would survive such a state without her in place beside him, unseen.

"Sôtêr." _Savior_, Hecate says in the old tongue only the gods and their descendents remember how to speak.

"So be it." Persephone allows, and they take a step and the three Fates greet them midway.

"Your time beneath is at an end, daughter of Demeter, bringer of spring." Clotho speaks as she spins, her eyes do not leave her work.

"Hail the savior, he who shall live long among the divine immortals." Lachesis plucks a thread and measures that length against the lengthening tapestry that has no end that even Persephone can judge, Persephone does not like the way the goddess eyes the thread and then the babe.

"Be warned the boy you bring, shall met his end at Poseidon's hand." Only one of the three, Atropos, who cuts the thread of life, meets her eyes.

Persephone slowly nods, and takes Atropos hand when it is offered, leaving Hecate who can not cross the Fates and will find another way. The babe at her breast stirs as the brightening Horae dance toward them.

Persephone finds a smile for them, Thallo kisses her cheek, Carpo passes her the first fruit that will grow, and Auxo eyes the babe at her breast with a pleased eye. Persephone knows that Auxo blesses this child, and he will grow well and quickly.

She is led onward, and the Charities glory in her coming, Thalia with Aglaea and Euphrosyne leading the three in a dance.

Then there stands her mother, Demeter. Persephone is greeted with a long hug, and around them the earth begins to bloom. Every sight of winter feels strange and long, for Persephone who remembers the world as it was before, always in bloom. Now it dies and is cold, and Persephone is glad she does not ever see snow.

"What is this, my daughter?" Mother speaks, touching the cheek of the babe in something like wonder.

"The son of my breast, from the body of Hades…" Persephone does not hesitate to claim, for the child had suckled on her breast and the nourishment of her body had already given him a divine glow. His skin is already aflame because of the golden Ichor stirring to life within him.

Persephone is proud of what she says, and knows it for truth, even if it is not wholly right. Her word is above reproach she is Queen below earth as her mother is a Queen upon it, gladly she passes the babe to Demeter when her mother out stretches her arms in silent request.

"His name…?" Demeter asks in acceptance, as the babe pulls on a lock of her rich hair and brings a smile to her lips.

"Sôtêr, by Hecate's lips, for she nursed him first." Demeter touches the mark on his brow, the raising earth, and is satisfied; yet a frown plays upon her lips.

"Perhaps it is only the nature of Hades, but I sense this child has been brushed by Thanatus." _Death_, Demeter's claim is not wrong, only Persephone had not looked so closely before. Only with the babe back in her arms does she feel he is safe.

"Come, Zeus your father waits." Demeter keeps an arm about Persephone's waist as she guides her daughter and her grandchild to her chariot, the serpent dragon Cychreides stirs to eye the babe. Persephone gives its ears a scratch, and wide eyed babe and Cychreides eyeball each other, the dragon gives the babe a sniff and snorts, and Persephone hears for the first time the babe's laugh.

Welcome delight fills her ears, and she settles into the chariot under her mother's eyes. Cychreides flies skyward and Persephone watches the land below, what was cold and asleep stirs with new life beneath their passing shadow.

Olympus crowns the clouds of the Empire State Building, upon setting his sights on it with a glad cry and a flurry of flapping to settle his wings upon landing, Cychreides' head turns again with a certain fascination to watch the babe in her arms leave the chariot.

Demeter walks ahead to lead the way, as if Persephone might forget it. She steps foot inside and she sees her father Zeus raise to stand in greeting her, his hair is the white of clouds and his eyes the blue of the sky. Persephone passes the babe to Demeter, when Zeus holds his hands outstretched for her to take, gladly she does so.

"My daughter, we welcome you again to walk among us on earth and Olympus." With his words, the Charities and the Horae, and the Muses nine sing out greetings, there will be celebration until sunrise of the next day. Zeus takes her aside, to join Demeter with the babe.

"And who is he to be?" Zeus has fathered many children, but he still delights in the sight and joy of them, immortal or half-divine, even if he is not a nurturing parent all their life long. Persephone still holds his hand, and her hand tightens about his in thanks for acknowledging the child as hers.

"My son, Sôtêr." Persephone says without pause, and Zeus takes the babe up and living green eyes meet his own sky blue.

"Nephew and grandson both, this child of yours shall be to me. What is your desire for his fate?" Zeus has such ease to speak; he eyes are upon the mark of a lightning bolt on the child's brow – the rising earth like mountain peaks.

"He must never enter the Underworld, nor will Hades set eyes on my son." Persephone may forgive a dead mortal an affair with her husband, but she will not bear for child and father to meet. Not while this child is hers by body's milk and name.

She also remembers well the words of Atropos, and in this way, she may avert her child's fate, never would Hades the King of the Underworld and its dead meet his son, not alive, and not dead – for the child would not die, if Zeus granted her the fate she chose for her son. In this way she need not fear what Poseidon would do, though she would keep her eyes upon him.

Demeter beside her stirs, sensing the fury of Persephone, and remembering her own words; _I sense this child has been brushed by Thanatus_. Demeter shares a glance with Zeus full of unspoken words.

"You speak as if Hades would do his own child harm." Hera says as she greets them, she offers a smile for Persephone. If there is any bitterness in her over facing the offspring of her husband and her sister, who is her equal in the Underworld, Persephone has never glimpsed it.

"I fear it would be so, if he knew this child lived. Hades has never wished for an heir. He does not know his son yet lives." Hera runs her finger over the duel symbol, a lightning bolt or the rising peaks of mountains, she puts a finger in the babe's mouth, and it suckles ambrosia from her finger tips. It is a sign of the Queen of Heavens approval, of acceptance unasked for. Persephone is unspeakably grateful.

"I know this is not a son of Zeus, fear me not in this. He shall dwell on Olympus with us, and we shall hide and raise him, his father will not find him – a mere burning ember among ourselves that shine like the stars above." Demeter nods in approval of Hera's words, and Persephone says nothing for everything is working as she wished it to.

"Also, so Sôtêr may not be found by Hades with his birth name, we will call him by another." Zeus says, and Persephone lowers her eyes to show respect of her father's wisdom.

"Then from your lips must the name come, my father King and lady aunt Queen." Persephone sees from beneath her lashes that they are pleased.

"A two syllable name it must be." Demeter who holds the babe warns to prevent her siblings from arguing, she need not worry, for the pair nod in adamant agreement in this. For her child's sake, they are united. They will go in order of rank, but Persephone knows the true order of things is by birth.

"_Ry_, for the sun's rays never touch Hades realm, and nor will this child." Zeus promises both mother and grandmother and babe, and Persephone is put at ease with her father's word – his promise, her wish would be granted and guarded by the King of Gods and his Queen.

"_Har,_ for both a king's heir -and air, for may he always find safety in aither, the air of heaven's name." Hera murmurs to the babe with a whisper in his ear. Her eyes meet Persephone's equal to equal.

_Ryhar – Harry, home ruler, so the name his mortal mother gave will haunt him here_. Persephone realizes, and knows this the doing of the Fates, a reminder of the mortal blood in him. Still, if they do not approve, it is fitting that the son of her mate, nurtured by her body and that of Hecate, is named the first day of the arrival of spring which Persephone represents.

"Hermes." Zeus calls for his son, who answers as promptly as any god of messenger and herald should.

"Speak the name of the son of Persephone, who was named by Hera and Zeus as Ryhar this the first day of spring the return of Persephone from Hades in your travels." Hermes winks at Persephone, and goes to do as he is bidden.

"Iris." Hera speaks, and the arching rainbow Titan kneels before her.

"Ryhar, son of Persephone has been named this day, speak my words to ears that have the wisdom to hear and heed." Iris nods and silently spreads her wings, in a rainbow that streaks across the sky is Ryhar's name.

As if he understands, Ryhar giggles into the hair of Demeter.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

It seems to Persephone that that season, Ryhar does not grow at all, and when she descends into the Underworld come autumn, she leaves the babe in the care of Demeter.

Hades waits for her, greeting her with Charon at his side.

"Where is my son?" He asks of her, stern and solemn, and he wares a mourning lily on his breast. Persephone only smiles and says as she settles into Charon's skiff beside him, as if already upon her throne at court – she is Queen here.

"He is your son no more." Hades is still and turns his eyes to cold Acheron, and it is right that it is the river of pain that flows beneath them.

"What have you done?" Hades seems to shrink within himself, withering like the plants above the earth in the face of Demeter's chilling sorrow. He has never regretted making her his wife and Queen, but now Persephone wonders if he realized before the price.

There is a lesson to be learned in this, that Persephone is a Queen and his wife and will not tolerate Hades to have others in his bed. There is nothing of his that Persephone can not claim as well, be it his children or his realm and name. She will not be denied.

"He is named Sôtêr by his first nurse, the lady Hecate, and by my father and his Queen he takes the name Ry for a ray of sun that will never touch the realm of Hades, and Har for being born a king's heir and hidden among the shining air of the heavenly gods upon Olympus. You will never set eyes upon him, and he will not enter the Underworld to die. He is mine now, Hades – a son that suckled from my breast, _mine_, for all the good it does you that he was sprung from your seed of a mortal's womb." Persephone lifts her chin and smiles smugly, eyes feasting upon all of Hades.

"My punishment for fathering a child with a mortal, against the law and word of Zeus above…" Hades agrees his dark eyes full of sorrow in never seeing his son in the flesh. Persephone is content with his suffering.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Ryhar." Hermes calls as he nudges the boy awake, sleepy green eyes peer up at him and Hermes can not help but smile. Hermes alone has been witness to everything between Persephone and Lily; he knows he looks upon his uncle's son, a half-god wizard born of a mortal witch.

"Come on, up with you." Hermes tickles the babe's nose, and with a sneeze the boy raises from his bed. He grows late, but quickly, already he walks as a toddler would – it was rightly Hermes who taught him to, given Hermes had played such antics as a babe crawling from his crib to steal from Apollo.

Ryhar rubs his sleepy eyes and looks to the sky.

"Eos isn't up yet." He says; it isn't a whine or question, only a fact.

"Yes, well, you wanted to see Helios and that lot, yes?" Hermes teases as if he's reconsidering any such thing, he taps a finger to his chin and looks down to see Ryhar squirming. The child is quiet and subdued, as Hermes would expect from Hades' son.

"Yes, please?" Hermes hears the soft voice ask eagerly, and with a laugh plucks the child from the marble floor.

"Very good, hold tight and close your eyes." That last part is simply because Hermes would be in trouble indeed if Ryhar tied to meet Helios on his own and learned the way from Hermes alone.

None the less, the child is a good boy, and obeys.

"Open them now." Hermes urges in a whisper to Ryhar's ear, after a nod to Helios.

A wide golden palace on the far eastern Oceanus, the earth encircling river, here is the bog and its lake beyond the palace walls; all of it a feast for Ryhar's eyes. Helios crowned in his golden aureole, its burn mimics the sun Helios is god of, and he is beardless and clothed in royal purple.

Hermes passes the boy into Helios' hands, the boy all the while looks up at the Titan with wide awed eyes.

"Welcome, little Ryhar, you are named partly for the rays of the sun, so it is well past time we met." Helios greets the boy who clings to his side and is but a silent witness to what he sees. Helios walks further into the golden palace, while Hermes is content to trail behind them.

"Oh, brother, what are you doing? Hemera has already gone to met Nyx!" Eos fans her wings impudently, white cheeked and golden armed rising at last from her couch where a young man watches her with a fond grin. Eos, fresh from bedding the youth, wares nothing but her wings, and only when she sees Hermes does she fold them around her with a frown at him.

"Well, go on then, do not let me delay you." At the words of Helios, Eos huffs aware of being teased.

With rosy fingers she blows Ryhar a kiss.

As if summoned by that gesture, twelve Horae attend her at once, when Eos steps away from them her hair is up in braided tresses, clad in flowery cloth of gold and a yellow robe.

"There my daughters are, Auge first light, Anatole like dawn, Musica for music, Gymnastica the bare, Nympha of the bath, Mesembria of noon, Sponde of a libations, Elete the tallest, Acte who hears Mount Athos sing, Hesperis of the evening, Dysis of the setting hour, and Arctus of the bear." Helios names them, when they hear their name they wave or wink to Ryhar so he follows which is which with ease.

"My horses, Lampos and Phaithon." Eos waved the laughing goddesses toward the stables where they swiftly brought forth the steeds, bright and shining. She climbs into her chariot and says not a word, around her the Horae gather, rising by her side, and with a burst of speed Eos rises and the stars flee from her sight.

Ryhar doesn't take his eyes from them until they are out of sight.

"Come meet my horses." Helios teases and Ryhar wiggles with delight.

"Morning star," Helios greets Eosphoros who yokes the four steeds, sparing only a moment to nod to both Helios and the boy, "is my sisters Eos' son, his brother Hesperos is my palace's doorkeeper and takes care of the horses when they return, as Eosphoros does now to take care of them in the wake of Eos."

"Who feeds them?" Ryhar asks, his voice squeaks.

"My sons take turns, Eiar for spring when your mother Persephone returns, Theros for summer, Phthinoporon in autumn, and Cheimon in winter." Cheimon stands to greet them, wrapped in a cloak with boots on his feet.

"Aethon, Eous, Pyrois and Phlegon." Cheimon names them, when he sees Ryhar's eyes fixed.

"Come meet my aunt Tethys and mother Theia." Helios walked then to the Gates of the Sun which kept the horses pinned within. Theia was a goddess who seemed to shine with light, reflecting it, kindling the flame of light within the gemstones of the golden palace; even gold kindled to bright life in her gaze. The golden palace would surely be less bright without her; the world itself would suffer her loss, for this was mother of the Sun, Moon, and Dawn.

Tethys rose from the water that surrounded them, smiling to see the Helios and the boy clinging at his side.

"Will you take him with you Helios?" Theia asked, reaching for the boy who Helios gave up to his mother with ease. Hermes said nothing as he turned his eyes to Tethys, who basked in their light, content.

"What do you _see_?" Helios teased, for his sight came from Theia.

"I see many things, my son, that he is savior, the son of no goddess, the grandson of Rhea, favored by me and mine, and gifted with the blood of Phoebe from which descends Apollo, Artemis, and Hecate. Yet your light, my first born, has always blinded me." Theia murmured fondly, Ryhar giggled and the Titan goddess held the child aloft so that he burned with the light of a god.

"I think I shall." Helios mused, seeing how pleased Ryhar was at the attention of Theia.

"I knew it. A mother _sees_ all." Theia eyes gleamed with light, her keen sight a never faltering thing.

Theia passed the boy to Tethys, who peered back into the wide green eyes that regarded her.

"Three thousand sons have I, and three thousand again in daughters. None, little one, have your deep green eyes." Tethys told Ryhar who regarded her with those big eyes; she smiled and handed the boy to Helios.

"Show the boy's eyes the world." Tethys urged Helios, who feared always for her nephew to fall in his everyday toil; in this she gave him her blessing.

Helios took the boy up to his chariot, where Hermes at last made an effort to make the Titan stop and think.

"You're sure this is wise?" Hermes smiled tightly and ruffled Ryhar's black hair so he would not be afraid despite what he would heard said today.

"I learned my lesson well with Phaethon; you need not fear I would make the same mistake twice – and with a babe not my own son!" Hermes did not flinch though Helios raged at him with loathing hisses, for from Helios descends Gorgo, mother of Medusa.

"As you wish..." Hermes can do nothing, so steps aside and waves after Ryhar until he is out of sight.

He goes swiftly then to find Apollo.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"You _lost_ Ryhar." Hermes loves Apollo, truly he does, but there are times he wants to throttle the elder god, such as _now_ when Apollo is full of dry sarcasm and big brother superiority.

"Not lost, more so…_misplaced_." Hermes resists the urge to fidget.

He fails.

"Misplaced _where_?" Apollo has gotten over his amusement and is now suspicious, Hermes can't decide if that's worse or better.

Hermes mumbles Helios' name and hopes his brother's prophetic abilities fill in the rest.

"_What_?" No such luck.

"I said…" Apollo cuts him off with an abrupt silencing gesture that looks like a knife crossing his throat.

"I _know_ what you _said_, Hermes, I was hoping you weren't that _stupid_." Apollo keeps his voice soft, as he rises from his bed; he would be yelling – if not for the nine sleeping Muses.

Hermes is careful to shy away from them, Maia had taught her son well to mind the daughters of Mnemosyne.

Apollo looks out his window and mutters a new curse, glances to his younger brother and rolls his eyes skyward.

"You've done it now." Apollo warns and bites his lip as he looks above again. Helios holds the course steady.

"Can't you, I don't know, call him down?" Hermes suggests, and cringes at the look Apollo tosses him.

"Oh, sure, why didn't I think of that? Who cares what the mortals think? No, Hermes, I really _can't_ _do that_ without Dad taking notice." Apollo and sarcasm really do go well together.

"But your god of light and the sun…" Apollo does scathing nicely as well.

"_Light_ of the sun, light, as in _sight_, as in prophesy, as in I can't fix this!" Apollo huffs and runs a hand though his hair, almost as if he's afraid to look away; his eyes are trained on the sun.

"What do we do?" Hermes told himself he was _not_ whining.

"_We_ don't do anything, you, the _messenger god_; will tell our father that you have _misplaced_ our sister's only son." Apollo only them take his eyes away from the heavens, and finds Hermes gone. Only then is there a flash of light, like the sun flaring, and Apollo looks quickly back, his mouth tight in denial of saying the word, "no" – for that would only tempt the Fates.

He sees, by his mother's blood, what no other immortal can.

Helios holds Ryhar tight against his side in the heavens, where mortal eyes can not see, the heavens are wild and untamed, _and here_ it is that the primitive deities waken to life at the sight of Helios and his burden. Ryhar's wide green eyes watch that life, for the origin of man and god alike is in the stars, then the Hydra, the serpent Hercules himself had slew but Hera had saved with like natured Leo, once the lion of Nemean whom Hercules had strangled, pay the boy mind.

"_Look away_." Apollo urges the boy, speaking the words aloud, a warning that goes unheeded – and might as well never been spoken at all, for all the good it does.

Ryhar meets those starry gazes, bold and young – but Helios does not yet take notice of what his charge is doing.

Leo bows, the king of all wild beasts takes the courage of a babe no bigger then a lamb as a boon.

Hydra is not so easily tamed, and meets the child's innocence with knowledge of the immortal beast. It follows.

"_No, no_!" Apollo stirs and struggles to look away so he can take action – any action – that is better then this sight that all but dooms a babe, for while Apollo watches and _sees;_ he is helpless to act in any other way.

The sight has caught him, and he can do nothing but _see_.

Helios curves his path, and comes closer to the Hydra behind in order to slow the mad speed of his steeds – unaware all the while – of Hydra, had he known? Apollo knows Helios would have let his horses race away to escape, but the boy is with him, and he goes slow and careful. Slow enough that Hydra follows with ease, seeing his chance the beast lets out an enchanting hiss, and Ryhar reaches out a hand to touch those terrible features.

The boy cries out, a shriek Apollo below can hear with ease, as he's bitten by the Hydra, triumphant the serpent steals the boy from the chariot of Helios. Who, only with that cry, becomes aware of the enemy – the thief, Helios snarls in the face of Hydra whose jaws clasp the boy's arm, the serpent tosses the boy skyward to drop him in the mouth of the beast, a immortal child devoured by a primitive deity, as has not occurred since the time of the Titans. The Hydra remembers such days with ease; the gold eyes of Helios meet the bright green of the boy, and Helios has no choice – to save the boy, he must fall.

Ryhar seems to understand that, as Helios charges the Hydra, his four steeds leaping forward more boldly then any charging war-horse. Helios in the sun chariot and the Hydra clash, and down Ryhar falls, like his name sake the ray of the sun goes down to fall though the air.

_Where will he land_? Apollo wonders, knowing that to be the question he must now answer.

Apollo sees the path, his vision answering his question in the time he would take to ask it.

"Given wings..!" Apollo's voice is hushed, urgent, but an order that is obeyed unquestioned by the light of day. White wings erupt violently from the boy's slender shoulders, his cry is fear and surprise and pain mingled to one voice that no mother worth the word could hear and not heed.

Apollo glimpsed the Aegean Sea, before he freed himself from the sight, or the sight set him free. Apollo cried out in denial, but it was useless to urge sight when he had already seen, _futile_.

The nine Muses had woken, and watched him with pity; Apollo touched his cheek and felt tears there.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Glaucus, who had been mortal man once, watched the fall of a star become a boy with wings. He smiled to see it, for he had been watching for this boy for a very long time – and the boy will not remain a _boy_ for very long at all. He raises his blue skinned hand, the scales glittering like the sea itself, and the sea bubbles beneath the boy to ease the fall.

Glaucus slips into the sea from his rock on the shore of Delos, birthplace of Apollo, where Glaucus himself had taught Apollo prophesy. With a flick of a serpentine fish-tail in place of legs, Glaucus dives beneath the waves, and the boy is where he'd seen in dreams, and as in his dreams, Glaucus puts his lips to the boy's mouth and breaths in the air Glaucus offers the boy's shut eyes open wide, he squirms in the grip of the sea-gods arms, but what is done can not be undone so simply, and the boy is a boy no more, but a girl with white as cloud wings and bold sea green eyes and raven black hair.

Glaucus smiles to see her, and then takes her to the surface, knowing what he's done will be a secret the sea will keep.

"Where am I?" Damp wings flutter behind her weakly, white and wet, bits of feathers float on the surface of the sea like clouds.

"Delos." Glaucus answers her, easily, and when wings fail to lift her up out of the dripping sea, and her legs and arms are obviously strangers to the sea, he offers his back, which she scrambles onto like a wet bird; desperately she clings to him and shivers. The sea is warm around them, so he knows it is the fall that has shaken her.

"Who are you?" The demand shows that there is still a boy in her, and Glaucus merely laughs with a flick of his copper green hair.

"Glaucus, and you are Ryhar, born to the name Harry James Potter and called Sôtêr by the witch Titan's lips. You were born a boy and I gave you the body of a girl. I was a human but ate the grass that turns mortals to immortal gods; both are gifts, so tell me now, which name do you prefer I call you by?" He could feel the regard of wide green eyes, watching him.

"Sôtêr." The girl who was a boy croaks on that name, knowing the meaning.

Glaucus's nod is graciously agreeing.

"Where are we to go?" Sôtêr, self-named, asks after Glaucus goes further from the shore and into deeper waters.

"To Aeaea, where Circe the daughter of Helios awaits us." Sôtêr is too young to think of plots unspoken, so it is just as well that she says nothing, the shivering gives way to the sway of the waves and the blue sea and dark heavens, and then the sky is as the inside of her eyelids, and she things when she wakes that the sea and the swimming of Glaucus swept her into sleep.

She dreams of lighting as green as her eyes, and when she startles awake fog keeps the sky at bay, she does not know if it is night or day, but the fair haired woman with gold eyes smiles to see her wake.

"Morning to you, little daughter, my name is Circe, and this island you rest upon is mine." Sôtêr nods quickly, least this lady thinks she is dumb or slow, but the bright laugh that fills the air rings of no harsh thought.

"Are you hungry?" Circe asks gathering up her skirts, her feet are bare in the sand, and the ends of it are wet.

Sôtêr's nod this time is tainted by a blush.

"Well, you should be, my love Glaucus may fast for his _sight_, but we women have no need, up little one into my arms, and I will see you well fed and you will meet my family." Circe smile is warm as the light of the sun, she opens her arms and Sôtêr does not hesitate to go into them, the embrace of this daughter of Helios is as warm and bright as her father.

They go into a house that is made of mud brick, but a young man spots them at the door.

"This is Telegonus, my youngest son – he with his brothers Latinus and Agreas rule a people the Greek's call strangers." Circe's smile is for her son, and it is clear she is proud of the boy who acknowledges her praise with a sheepish nod of his head, though his eyes linger, curious, on the girl-child, hardly old enough to walk yet clearly not a babe.

"She isn't yours, mother, yet she shines with the light of a goddess born of the blood of Theia's brood." His tone is matter of fact, not meant for an insult but clearly a question is lingering in his eyes, but Circe makes no answer, but voice give but a question of her own.

"Where is my daughter Cassiphone?" Circe inquires softly, though it's not meant to serve as a distraction, he waves toward the house, eyes turning back to his work – a tree rests before him, and his fingers shape it's length and width; it's no wider then a plank and curves like the incline of a wheel.

A girl with golden hair and amber eyes rests in the shade inside, she spins on a loom, but her eyes are elsewhere. Circe settles to sit beside this girl, putting a finger to her lips to shush any sound Sôtêr might think to make. Fingers sort soothingly though dry feathers, silvery and white as snow, content and sleepy Sôtêr leans against Circe, only hunger keeping her awake.

When the girl blinks, it's as if she has woken up, she sighs and stretches, and only then sees her mother and the girl babe leaning against her.

"Mother?" The girl raises her head and nods toward the dozing winged girl, a question in her eyes.

"What did you see?" Circe asks with a smile, for now putting aside questions, asked of her or not.

"God kings above and below shall bow; the sea queen shall pass her crown."

O.o.O.o.O.o.O


	15. This Isn't A Dream, FFXHP

This Isn't A Dream

Shade of Euphoria's prompt: Harry Potter/ Final Fantasy X, Wakka/Harry loving

*_Please keep in mind that before today, I've never written for or played Final Fantasy X: let alone known who Wakka is - but that didn't stop me from looking him up on YouTube and The Final Fantasy Wiki_. _I hope I do him justice_!*

Harry walked a city of dream, a city called Zanarkand.

There was something wrong, for he did not know where it was, or when, or why or how he'd come to be here. Harry didn't know if he dreamed.

"Sin!" It was a hiss; it tugged at Harry under his navel like a Portkey. He saw it then, a fraction of darkness, a fractured soul. It was why he was here. What he was meant to see.

Its red eyes looked into Harry, and Harry knew Voldemort had used him, used the dream of Zanarkand. That was when Harry stopped fighting the tug in his gut, the summoning like a Portkey.

Harry woke then, on the world of Spira, between sand and sea, on the Isle of Besaid.

He did not wake alone.

"You okay, ya?" Fingers threaded through his hair, soothing, checking him over for injury. Harry's eyes flicked open, alarmed, red hair and warm brown eyes greeted him, the grin was friendly, as easy as the fingers in his hair.

"Yeah..." Harry breathed in, and choked, the air was something new to get used to. The magic here was what made his body react.

"Easy, easy…" Big hands rubbed soothingly on his back.

"Who are you? Where am I?" Harry's voice was rough as sand paper.

"This is Besaid, I'm Wakka and ya?" It was a hint Harry followed with a sigh.

"Harry." Wakka stifled a snicker.

"Poor name." Harry rolls his eyes, aware that he hasn't much hair to claim.

"Up you get - least the sea washes you away to where you came." Harry gets slowly onto his hands and knees, and from there stands, looking back over the sea. It's wide and rolling, blue waves coming and going. He doesn't have a way back. He came here in a dream that was not. This is his reality.

"I have no where else to go." This is home, now.

"Then you stay with me?" Wakka wraps an arm about Harry's shoulders, and walks him away from his only sign of his arrival, the proof that he is living and breathing and this is more then a dream, his footprints in the sand.

It's those same footprints that Tidus follows come twilight.


	16. Perfect Percy, PercyxMarcus

Perfect Percy

Shade of Euphoria's prompt: Harry Potter: Percy Weasley/Marcus Flint, delicious.

*_This is smut_.*

"You're not supposed to be in here." It's a warning Percy Weasley has given many times, in many places – and likely will give again. Everyone deserves a warning before Percy reports them. Hogwart's students seem particularly uncaring to the rules made up by adults that keep the school in order and functioning as it should everyday and year around. As such, they don't often know that such rules exist for any reason, or at all.

That the professors receive so little help from those they teach, who don't seem to want to learn, amazes Percy. So he does what he can to help. If that makes him a 'professor's pet' and 'brown nosier' and 'know it all', well, Percy can live with that until the rest of his would be peers play catch up. Then they'll find that he's important, that he is after all somebody to like. He'll have earned it, not like Harry who has had greatness thrust upon him be being born and living. Not that Percy blames Harry, oh no, envies perhaps, but Percy still respects Harry – he is, rightly enough, magically powerful.

But in the here and now, to his words, Marcus Flint only grins.

"Is that right?" Percy flicks his eyes away, if only because this is the Perfect's bathroom, and Marcus Flint is bathing in it. Under a shimmer of suds he's also very naked. He nods to the wall, and hates that his red hair and fair face flushes so easily, he can see it in the mirror, all that pale skin gone red like fire.

To that blush, Marcus chuckles dark and deep. Like Percy's own brothers, Marcus plays Quidditch - has been playing it ever since he'd been allowed, he is also two years older then Percy. His teeth may be big (the better to bite you with, whispers a wicked thought) but his body is very nicely developed – and it shows. Percy can't help but look, and it's as if Marcus is showing off.

"What are you going to do, Perfect – send me to detention, spank me?" Marcus's eyes go up and down Percy, very deliberately, as if mentally marking all his strengths and weaknesses. Percy can admit he has a short temper, attributed to his red hair, but the fact is Percy hates that while he can get on a broom and play ball with his brothers, he's not allowed to play Quidditch on a school team.

"Get out." Percy snarls, and promptly wishes he hadn't, Marcus obeys him, rising out of the water like a sin. A very certain kind of sin which Percy is experiencing, which takes his breath away, and Marcus like any good predator senses that, and moves in: nothing but bare skin.

"What if I want in?" Marcus breaths against his ears and cheeks, hot, flaming the flames within.

"Want what?" Percy parrots, blinking stupidly up at him, all thoughts dazed and taken, stolen with Marcus's very breath upon him.

"Heh." Marcus touches his cheek, a small brush of pinky on flaming skin, and it's then that Percy makes a move to resist – too late, too late. Marcus has both his wrists clasped in his one big hand, above Percy's head – and he never noticed it. Never wanted to notice, never minded one bit what Marcus was doing to him, going to do to him. He wants it too.

Marcus kisses him, and Percy – already burning – melts.

Marcus has him, holds him against the wall, pinned for Marcus for his – their – own pleasure.

The promise of it is in the thrust of his tongue past Percy's lips, the roughness, and the bristles rubbing his smooth skin raw. That tongue fills up Percy's mouth, fills him up from within, and Percy would choke if Marcus doesn't already knowingly withdraw, then pushes in again, and again, slowly filling him back up. Mouth to mouth, pressed against each other as if to kindle warmth in the cold, he isn't for once cold inside, he wonders how Marcus knew. Percy knows he's moaning and making noises he shouldn't, knows he doesn't want it to stop, doesn't want to be caught like this.

His fingers entangled with Marcus, testing, flexing and straining. He cries out, and Marcus swallows that sound. Slowly chuckles, withdrawing, feeling his task is done. Percy finds himself offering, wordlessly, with a twist of his hips toward Marcus, what he can't say aloud. His own body betraying him, widening his eyes and the length of Marcus is hot and hard against his belly, and Percy wants more.

More then that promise of a tongue down his throat can fill and fit.

"Delicious." Marcus hisses into Percy's ear. As one handed he shoves robes aside, under them are jeans that Marcus unzips and unbuttons, shoving them down Percy's hips, down his thighs, until Percy is trapped in them: right where Marcus wants him to be.

A thigh shoves his legs apart, and Percy rides with it until Marcus's fingers find him, part him, and press inside. His fingers are slick with the oil that Percy hadn't known was in the bath. Percy writhes and twists, but can't escape and doesn't want to – not really.

A kiss steals his breath and all the sounds Percy might make to protest.

His only protest is when those fingers that fit inside him so well, withdraw.

"Hush." Marcus snarls, and shoves into him, fills him up. It's almost too much, too soon, too fast – but Marcus is slow and deliberate and Percy finds his own wicked delight in it. He gasps and moans and neither of them last long at all. Percy doesn't know if he'd want it to, but Marcus kisses his brow and Percy knows better then to protest anything that might happen. There is a future in this, between them.

It rises up, looming, the shape of it yet indefinable.


	17. Twin Meeting, Potter&Dresden

Twin Meeting

_Aillil prompt_: Potter/Dresden, Harry (Potter) is just about as old as Harry Dresden.

*_Where as my previous prompts were based on the Dresden novels, just for something different, these are based on the Dresden Files (TV show)_*

Wizards, as it goes, are rare. Most of the world knows this very well, as to them, for the most part – wizards and witches don't exist. So it isn't all that unusual to have a 'peer' wizard who is ten years older or younger, the rare is to find someone only a year older or a year younger. Almost unheard of, is to find someone your exact age.

This is because of magic, the very reason they are wizards, isn't something to be understood or measured out – least of all, predicted.

"I'm _telling_ you." Dresden hears him as if he's standing right at his shoulder, though he sits between Murphy and her partner, Det. Sid Kirmani.

"That I did not kill anyone." That voice echoes with magic to Dresden, and he shivers, because it's like standing in a cave that echo is deep and bone jarring. It doesn't hit him that it's an English accent in Chicago until he glimpses the man speaking, black haired, lanky, all leanness and angles.

"He's a wizard." Dresden finds himself saying, warning them away before anything else – then, as those living green eyes land on him.

"He's telling the truth." There is a certain sang that people without magic picked up and thought merely romantic instead of a defining truth: the eyes are the windows to the soul. Dresden doesn't dare meet those eyes; a wizard gazing into another wizard's eye is the most powerful of magic, and it's most intimate. It isn't done in polite society, isn't done between strangers. Where magic is involved you can never tell what the results would be.

"How do you know?" It isn't Murphy or Sid who ask it, it's the wizard sitting between them, leaning forward and tilting his head at Dresden as if he's just found a new spell, or species. A scholar's look and Harry Dresden sighs.

"The likes of you wouldn't abide to be held by the likes of them if you went bad enough to murder. You'd be like the big bad wolf and blow the house down, bricks, sticks, straw and all. Frankly, I don't know why you haven't just confused them all and been on your way." Dresden doesn't mind saying this so frankly in front of Murphy and Sid, better that they know now, like this, then later have to explain. They don't look either way as if they quite believe him anyway. Only Murphy takes a step back.

Slowly, the wizard with dark hair (like his) and bright eyes (like his, albeit green – not blue) smiles. He knows it's the truth. They can't lie to one another.

"Then why were you at the scene of the crime, caught red-handed?" Sid hisses at the wizard, who sighs, and that magic of his retreats, as if it was playing with Dresden's own, cat and mouse.

"My friend, Hermione Ganger had contact here, with him – Jim Lyon, the murdered man. She hadn't gotten in contract with him for three weeks, and worried. It was on my way, so I checked. I found the mess and was trying to clean it up. It was done messily, and with magic." It seems, in the old way, that the stranger hadn't mentioned magic to the cops until Harry Dresden let the cat out of the bag. English accent, he remembers, and grins – very old world.

"That door – the only way in and out - was locked, Mr. Potter, how did you get in, let alone it being on your way? There are no traces of you outside that room." Dresden goes very still, because names are dropping out of the hat here and now – Hermione Ganger is his age, powerful, and a genius. Magic –as if it seeks out those lacking in a survival instinct - rarely gifts someone as talented as that, but he knows that name – knows the name of every wizard and witch around his age. And in their world, there is only one Mr. Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and a war-wizard out of the finest school overseas.

The exact same age as Dresden, if it were possible (and it is, magic defines and redefines the laws of possibility and probability) to be twins split by birth in magic, born overseas from each other, they are it. Dresden knows that without sharing a literal soul gaze with another wizard.

"Harry Potter." Dresden says, shaky as if he can't catch his breath. Harry Potter nods, nobly, as if acknowledging an equal. They are equal, _exactly_, and that Potter found out before him is only because Potter has more fine control over his magic and with wizards – there are those with raw power, and those with the mastery over power, but rarely both. Dresden notes his wand, just as Potter had noted the staff. Bigger is not always better, but rather the focus defines how fine a wizard manipulates magic – his own, another's, and magic all around.

"I came down, you might say, from the fire place. Jim Lyon was connected to the Floo Network." This Harry Potter answers absently, as if it doesn't have his whole attention.

"Do they – the High Council, know you're here?" If anything, the realization of who sits here before him hasn't improved his blood pressure. Green like living plants, and blue like sky and sea meet.

"They will now." Magic is magic, it's what wizards and witches know and feel everyday. The whole city knows what has passed, the feel of twin souls, twin magic's, meeting.


	18. Seeing Double, Potter&Dresden

Seeing Double

_Aillil prompt_: Potter/Dresden, looking a lot alike

*_In which I experiment with Harry Dresden and 1st Person. A sort of 'what if' AU in which Harry Potter has lost, but is still alive - and wanted - by Lord Voldemort_.*

It begins with a call at three AM.

"Harry Dresden," Murphy says without a hello, "tell me you've never been to Europe."

"Never been there," I grunt, "thinking about moving there now." Longingly, I look to my bedroom. It isn't much, but it's mine, and tucked into bed is where all good little wizards should be this late at night.

"Do you have a twin brother?" Murphy persists; I rub my brow a headache itching behind my eyes.

"What is this, twenty questions past twelve? No I do not have a twin brother." I leave out the fact that I do have an older half brother, but then – no one but me needs to know about Thomas.

"Dresden," Murphy says strained and sharp, "nights like this I really wish you had a TV." I know I'm not going to like what I hear next.

"On the news overseas it's saying that magic and wizards and witches, it's all real, all on a broadcast – and they've come out as nobles, royalty, and their leader – they call him Lord Voldemort: he's issued a reward, dead or alive, for a Harry Potter. He….he, I swear, looks just like you." Murphy is shaken, and I all I can think is circles of _oh shit_, and _the High Council is going to kill me_. Which makes no sense, but anyone who makes sense at three AM isn't sane.

And magic has never favored the sane.

Then the door is knocked on, hard, loud, demanding. I recognize that knock. It's just my luck.

"Thanks for the heads up, someone at the door – got to go, good night Murphy." I hang up before any sort of explanation can be demanded of me, or I can be cursed at.

"You need to see this." Thomas says as I open the door, as he's gotten the memo that no one says hello anymore. Without a by your leave, I get dragged into a car that makes me jittery, my magic I rein in like rope tying it off and hoping not to screw something up in the machine. Thomas would not thank me for it. The car looks very new and fancy, and has one of those little flat screen TVs in it.

I watch. If my mouth is hanging open unattractively toward the end, Thomas isn't the sort to say something impolite about it.

"What do we do?" He asks, as if it's any other problem we can work out together. This would be thought to be a little out of my lead, if I wasn't what I was – a Warden of the White Council - a wizard, and – apparently – this Harry Potter's look alike.

"Well, we're already at war." I muse, because it's true and with how much going on between anyone with or connected to magic, it's hard to keep track.

"We're going to get him out?" Thomas asks, as if it's a stupid idea, but one he expected. I want to ask, what's with this "we", but know better then to ask – Thomas won't rest (and certainly won't let me out of his sight) until we've cleared this up and no one is going after me, the wrong Harry. There are big advantages to having a half brother who is an incubus lord of the White Court. You can move things quickly when the need arises - I've never been to Europe, but even if no planes are flying, I'll be there before tomorrow morning.

"Duh, don't you want to meet him?" Thomas smiles in affirmative, and I nod final agreement.

Wizards we – well, I –just can't help my curiosity.


	19. Filling In The Blanks, HP&HD

Filling In The Blanks

_Aillil prompt_: Potter/Dresden, Dresden AU where Potter moved to the US and became Dresden.

Malcolm Dresden was visiting Petunia Dursley, his niece, at Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging in Surrey, England when baby Harry was dropped on their doorstep. It was a family stop, to see her baby – it was also a chance to introduce Margaret Gwendolyn LeFey, his wife. A witch.

"What will you do?" Malcolm held the baby, as he asked this of Petunia who held her own baby Dudley, and her husband Vernon wrapped a supporting arm about her shoulders. It had been, after all, their doorstep. They had a right to an opinion, but that would not be the final decision if their choice was not one to his – their, he knew with a glance his wife gave him – liking.

"We can't raise him, it's too much – Lily…Lily would never have asked this of us, it's them uncle, it has to be." Petunia nodded to Margaret, as if his wife stood for all those who possessed magic like her sister had.

"In this, I agree." Margaret sighed, sticking out her pinky which baby Harry clings to.

"We…we could give him up for adoption." Vernon suggested, hesitatingly.

"That would solve nothing, they would find him, give him away, again and again, until he finds a home where none would see him for what he is." Margaret argued, narrow eyed and watching the baby as she thought.

"And what is he?" Petunia asked, with a sneer. She would have no child with magic under her roof. It wasn't in her, and certainly not in her blood. The line of magic in Malcolm's family, he feared, ended with Lily.

"Family…." Malcolm says a word that makes Vernon Dursley flinch. Both look away, ashamed.

"We will take him in." Margaret decides then and there, her own belly big with their coming child. When she dies giving birth, and a babe is stillborn, no one takes much notice that Malcolm Dresden raises his son (his niece's son) with the name Harry Dresden.


	20. Awkward Meeting, Potter & Dresden

Awkward Meeting

WizardsGirl's prompt(s) : Harry Potter/Harry Dresden, HP/HD, Harry - Floo Meeting (if you remember "Calling Harry" this actually happens before that, is hinted to)

There is nothing left for Harry Potter do to with his life. Voldemort is gone, the Weasley family and the remaining Order of the Phoenix have things well in hand reshaping the Ministry without him.

Nothing left to do but go home.

Harry thinks it's kind of funny, when he was a hero no one would give him peace, now – peace is all he has, too much of it. It isn't the attention he misses; it's how he felt useful, as if he had a purpose. Now, he doesn't.

He doesn't know what to do with his life, the goblins have told him he is the Heir (and used that word, too – as if there are Kings and Queens, but there are not – he'd asked) what it means is, roughly in the world, he is the richest wizard: the Potter riches, the Black fortune, and when he died Albus Dumbledore had given him all the resources of the Order of the Phoenix.

It also means he has a home he didn't know he had. He stepped into the floo, just as someone called his name. Harry himself was saying the name of his home.

"Harry – "

"- Dresden Manor."

He caught a glimpse of the whites of wide eyes, and then the floo roared up and swallowed him.

It coughed him up, and he staggered out, dizzily landing on the floor. He couldn't catch his balance, but his hand had clenched automatically onto his wand.

"Who _the hell_ are you?" It was demanded of him from the most indignant sounding man, and Harry looked to him, wand pointed without hesitation.

"Better question, _where_ am I?" Harry asked with a sneer, not at all pleased to be spoken to like that. Or at all. Floo travel just didn't agree with him over long distances, and judging by that accent, this was indeed long distance. Harry eyed the fireplace wondering at his chances of getting back to where he came from.

"Uh, my fireplace, my rules: no one has ever done that before, so how did _you_?" Judging by the blasting staff now being held (not, yet, pointed at Harry) in the man's hand, he was a wizard.

"It's called Floo, and I'm called Harry Potter." A blink, a stunned frozen face: he doesn't know how to react.

"When someone introduce themselves it's polite to do the same." As well, not stare at them as if they are insane. Harry gets to his feet, fighting his sea-sick feeling, and a headache. He feels he needs to stand, if only to be on equal footing with this man.

"Dresden." He says, hand outstretched for politeness sake, Harry shakes– and then as a wave of heat warms him, rolls over him, he sees the blasting staff in the other hand, and curses himself for a fool.


	21. Match Made By Magic, PotterxDresden

Match Made By Magic

WizardsGirl's prompt(s) : Harry Potter/Harry Dresden, HP/HD, smut (_continued from Awkward Meeting_)

Harry takes a stuttering breath, surprised, and Dresden looks from his blasting staff to Harry as if he's just figured out that he's done something he isn't supposed to have. Dresden magic tingles along Harry's skin, along his spine, like fingers, probing and pinching to find a way in. It isn't pleasant, but – for now – it is not _unpleasant_.

"Oh." It's all Dresden says, but it's enough – more then enough, to show he's realized this is his doing, Harry takes another breath, forcing himself to keep calm. If he moves away, the magic – wild, dancing, spinning about them – will react. He doesn't know in what way, and that is the most dangerous thing of all about a wizard meeting another wizards magic. Some go lifetimes without ever making this sort of mistake, but some – like Dresden – seem to be a puppet to magic's will. Instead of the will that commands magic.

"_Easy_." A warning: it isn't easy, this wizard barely deserves the word _wizard_, and his magic is a wild and willful thing. Harry hisses under his breath, trying while thinking of it - to get his own magic under his own control and command. It's like trying to use the wrong hand while writing, his magic half paying him, but it isn't all his magic mixing into him. It isn't all his own magic he's commanding. Dresden's standing very still, not even trying to control his magic. He's still, as if he hopes that by pretending he's not there, his magic will go away. Harry really wishes magic was that simple. It presses at Harry's control, begging to play.

Play, to a wizard's magic, means either fuck or fight, and Harry doesn't want to do either with a stranger.

"Control yourself." Harry begs, because Harry can't control his own magic (without a wand) and Dresden's at the same time, Dresden having his staff in hand should at least _try_. Even if he does something it's better then doing nothing. Dresden uses his grip on Harry's hand to pull him in closer. He looks fevered, cheeks pink panting for his breath as if this is a race to be won or lost. He drops his staff, deliberately, smirking. Now there is no hope for a way to control this situation. Harry can't help but tense, wondering if this is a trap.

"Don't take this the wrong way, okay? – but I don't really want to." Dresden nuzzles at his neck and the soft hairs there, Harry digs his nails into flesh, a warning to stop – or else. _Else_ what, Harry closes his eyes so he won't see coming. Doesn't know or care. Dresden's breath on his neck is hot and soothing against his chill skin, his dread and fear; though magic tingles like that breath is a fan to flame.

It melts him, all in one breath, one touch of lips to skin soft and over sensitive: Harry groans, something like a giving in, and something like a giving up.

Magic, like a forest fire, roars up triumphant, binding and melting, it's like dying and giving chance to a new life: here, now, his. Dresden sinks to his knees, pulling Harry atop him, fingers seeking anywhere that's covered by robes. Arms, shoulders, his chest, his waist, all know Dresden's touch, recognizing it as if it's his magic.

The other hand, the one they shook with, fingers flex and relax with the flow of magic. Entangled, tough sensitive, touch starved. A wizard's hands, where they manipulate magic from themselves into a object to give shape to their will with words, is rarely touched, except in meetings, and _never_ with a wizard's staff or wand in hand.

Dresden gives voice to a cry of triumph, finding what he sought, shoving robes away – which magic snatches away. Not just the robes, but every stitch of cloth.

Harry moans, skin on skin, burning and wanting and needing. Dresden's lips on his burn with magic, swallowing his cries, but filling him up, with tongue - following his – _their_ - magic into him. An urgent hand (the other hand tightens in a grip about his, not letting go for anything – not even this) on his hip sets the pace, as they rock together, needing this, skin slick between them, riding the edge of magic and instinct to where it takes them.

One cries out for the other, and the other answers: or they cry out together, unable to tell one of them from the other.

_Bonded_, Harry knows as soon as he shakes away the daze of lust and magic. Melted and mated, their magical cores pound in an echo of a shared heartbeat.


	22. Trouble By Any Name, PotterxDresden

Trouble By Any Name

WizardsGirl's prompt(s) : Harry Potter/Harry Dresden, HP/TR, Thomas and Harry smut (_again with 'Calling Harry': my idea being what if Dresden hadn't showed up?_)

Thomas is many things, paranoid is one of them. It is not being Lord Raith of the White Court. Having a wizard for a half brother is – while interesting – frightfully bad for his peace of mind. So he'd gotten into the habit of calling Harry once a week, just to keep his sanity. So it's a weekly thing, with Thomas playing the part of protective big brother, because while he is the little brother for most of his father's daughters – this is his little brother, his _only_ brother. White Court vampires keep to their family most of their lives, frightfully loyal, and fanatically possessive. All together, Thomas thinks he's doing rather well that he hasn't forced Harry to live in his mansion (or isn't still living with Harry) – with all of Thomas's sisters to keep an eye on him.

Harry would not thank him for that, would in fact – probably – hate him for it.

The worst phone call (and twisted, best) of Thomas's life starts on a Saturday, at 11AM.

"Harry speaking…" Only it's not Harry – not his brother, it's someone with a accent that seems to be mocking him.

"You're not Harry." Thomas Raith is very sure of that much.

"Uh, I am actually, fair sure of it." Thomas isn't sure what is worse, to be mocked, or to have this stranger who is answering his brother's home phone _amused_ with him.

"Right…" Thomas knows something is wrong, but it's the demon in him that thirsts for the life energy of this man, for vengeance and death blood at his feet.

"Tell _Harry_ that Thomas is on his way." It takes him less then ten minutes to get to Harry's place, breaking more then a handful of traffic laws, and causing more road rage then most would think a weekend warranted. They weren't the big brother of a wizard, so Thomas delighted in the thrill of _fear/rage/anger_ riding their emotions.

Thomas knocks on the door, because Harry had told him the wards won't zap him if he went in politely.

Thomas gets a glimpse of black hair, green eyes and snatches the stranger from his brother's house. The protective wards can't tell forced exit from willful exit, they are there only to protect and defend the house – not people: so Thomas has no fear of them. Thomas pins the man to the ground, his demon roaring eagerly to the surface at the submissive and controlled possession that this stranger has let himself be put into – by him. It's inviting without trying.

"You're pretty." Dazedly said, but spoken true.

"White Court, damn…" Thomas inhales, and imprints this scent into memory. The body beneath his goes lax, easy prey, a victim. The demon thinks of all the delightful things it could do to that body – and this stranger, whose done something to his little brother, will _never_ get away from him.

"Where is Harry?" Thomas snarls it, so he would think about this easy submission, this open invitation.

"Right here..." A drugged smile, indulging and Thomas is swiftly indignant – how dare this man enjoy _this_! Thomas hisses in disgust, picking the intruder up and slamming him into the steps of Harry's apartment.

"Where is Harry _Dresden_?" Thomas is aware that this is the first time he has told his brother's full name to this stranger, and doesn't think it should now make a difference. He knows he's been forcing the body beneath his to want with lust, that if Thomas continues, this man will be addicted to him – to them, and he may hate it, but it has his uses.

It's frustration though, all too human, that it's come to this.

Pain has cleared the lust away from the glittering green eyes, swept it aside like a broom. The smile is full of promise. He is a wizard.

"I'm not going to tell you." He singsongs it, smug – and snaps his fingers. Their possessions are suddenly switched, Thomas on his back with the wizard straddling his hips. Thomas goes still, not because he's afraid, but because this a wizard – and wizard's have rules, they also tend not to approve of family blood crossing lines between man and – what Thomas is. It's for Harry's protection Thomas stays down, closed mouthed.

"Now, are you friend or foe?" Thomas hears him, but it isn't him that's being asked – it's the wards. This man's hands are on Harry's wards, as if he can use him. It's a very rare - very powerful wizard that can do something like that. Something the wards tell him makes those green eyes widen.

"Oh." He says, very softly. Thomas doesn't know why, it isn't important.

Thomas, riding the currents of emotions in an air, can tell when it goes from _pain/anger/lust_ to _lust/need/want/love_. Love he knows, needs, and wants. It's not directed at him, but it's his to take if he wants – and isn't pure love. He thrusts his hips upward, offering, and unable to help himself, the demon urging him to take what's being offered emotionally, stability.

Green eyes once clear, cloud, and it was like the ripple of a stones thrown, as if the moment of control and sanity had passed with one arch of Thomas's hips. Thomas has had many partners, but few so responsive to him.

He hisses, demanding, a hand is put on his shoulder, pushing away, but Thomas won't let him, not yet. He's unbalanced, and it's easy to make the wizard fall atop him, to take his breath away with a kiss.

The wizard moans, struggles to get away, but he can't, because Thomas has him trapped against his own body, holding him there until the struggles cease and he gives in. _Lust/want/need_ and Thomas knows it's his own demon now that this wizard wants and responds to. He's taking, taking advantage, taking what he needs (to live, to love)– it's what the White Court does best, takes what it needs to survive and damn the rest.

The hand that would push him away clenches, and shoves away his shirt – his pants, to get closer, to get skin to skin. His pants are half down to his knees, and Thomas rises up and forces the wizard onto his stomach and knees, touching with tongue along his spine, fingers forcing their way in and out of a willing body. Thomas has never mated with a wizard before, and takes what's his.

Harry would hate him for giving in, for doing this (to a guest in his house, on his door step).. but Harry isn't here to stop him.

The wizard gives in too – submitting and moaning for him, and Thomas takes what he needs, the _lust/want/need _of sex, the life of it. The wizard knows and doesn't stop him.

It's given freely. The wizard is his.


	23. Lives Entwined, PotterxDresden

Lives Entwined

WizardsGirl's prompt(s) : Harry Potter/Harry Dresden, HD/HP/TR, smut: Harry in the middle (of Dresden and Thomas)

There are things, Harry Potter knows, that can not be undone.

He is in bed between Dresden who he shares both his first name as well as a bed, and Dresden's older half brother, and says not a word as they wake. Dresden drags him nearer, nuzzling sleepily at him in all the right places. Thomas grins at him and with a wink, gives him a kiss that Dresden opens his eyes to see.

"First thing in the morning, you really want to go there Thomas – after last night?" Dresden drawls sleepily, his Chicago accent thick in their ears. It isn't really morning, but it is when they wake. Harry sighs against his chest and lets Thomas trail kisses from lips to neck to chest to navel and groans when quick lips caress his groin.

There is nothing but a sheet to cover them and the bed is Thomas's best.

"Really, really do." Thomas purrs, nuzzling at Harry's thigh playfully. Harry parts his legs willingly, putting one about Dresden's thigh so he can not escape. There are things he would not undo and would not for all the world change.

o.o.o

For Harry Dresden, family is an important thing. Thomas can understand that, they are half-brothers, but do not share much in looks, and nothing in name. Only their mother's blood from birth runs in their veins just the same. Harry does not know what it means to have family, and so Dresden and Thomas show it what it means to share.

As Thomas licks and sucks at Harry's front, Dresden takes advantage of his eager lifting hips, and slides his hand between Harry's back and the mattress. A quick slide of green eyes, low lidded bedroom eyes: as if Harry must struggle to see.

He is aware, but does nothing to hamper Dresden, which is no mistake on his part, Dresden is determined to prove.

"Well then, you're welcome to make him moan, but I'll have him on his stomach soon." Harry's cheeks flush red, and Dresden only grins at him.

Thomas's mouth, lower down, makes an obscene sound. It is only good breeding, power that isn't based in magic and isn't a vampire incubus: a competition between them, to see which brother Harry will bow his back to first.

Harry's fingers clench into the sheets, he is too proud to bow yet, yet – undeniably (so much so that Harry himself never disclaims it) he is theirs.

Harry Dresden will always have regrets, but this isn't one of them. Will never be one of them.

o.o.o

Thomas Raith knows he must feed to tame the demon tucked into his soul, a demon he was born with, but a demon he vowed in silence never to become (again).

With his tongue Thomas reduces Harry to mere sounds, no more words cross those red bitten lips. With his mouth he welcomes Harry in, to use him as soon Harry will be used.

Fingers touch lower, scraping teasingly against sensitive folds of skin. There, between Harry's thighs, Thomas is not alone and has no fear that he'll loose control, taking life rather then making love. With Dresden's fingers tangled with his own, they make Harry bow to them.

It is as it ought to be, it is as it will always be.


	24. At Crossroads

At Crossroads

Wiccachic2000's prompt: Harry Potter, Haiti: Voodoo Lwa/Loa/L'wha (There are things you believe in. What then of _things_ believing in you? We are not as alone on Earth as we think.)

Legba clicked his teeth in a gap toothed grin.

"Well done little one." He tipped his straw hat to Harry (who shivered and stared and made no motion to acknowledge him, not seeing him - yet). Legba, unbothered, reached into the body of Tom Riddle, the soul there was a scarred mess of shattered slivers.

"And you?" Legba looks down at the soul in his hand and shook his head, "you're a mess is what you are." Yet Legba remembered that there had been such promise in him, once. Ah well, sometimes you had to press hard to make sure what you had was diamond and not glass.

"You let me loose, my soul, and my body – the first time!" It was a quivering protect, while not of innocence, of blame. Legba, true enough, had had his hand in this.

"Did I?" Legba asked, looking about as if he expected an answer quickly.

"You did." Out of shadow the answer came, though no lips moved, Ghede spoke and Legba let the seven split soul pass to him.

"I'll not thank you for this." Smoke or shadow swirled between the two of them, disgruntled and disgusted.

"No, I don't think you would. He won't either, but this is a making. And he fixed my mistake: he'll be worthy – of that I know!" Legba rubbed his hands together, eager to be on with his job. Ghede laughed, his small dark body shaking (for rarely did Legba admit his mistakes). Legba rolled his eyes, but Ghede sighed and watched then.

There was a long silence, as they watched Harry shake and sob, for he had taken a life, and was but a child.

"Him…?" Legba nodded, quite pleased that Ghede had so spoken, so agreed.

"Him…." And it was a promise, a plan. For the loa have children, none know how, but –sometimes – the loa were housed in mortal flesh once before they became what they are now.

"Good," Ghede decides with a firm nod, (though he sneers to look at Tom Riddle's soul) "you choose well, for none should be glad to kill – and I do not like the taking of little ones, time or no time." In this Legba agreed with his reasoning, Ghede was the first man to die so saw all as his children, taking them from Legba at the crossroads so they would not be frightened.

Legba nods, his eyes upon his making that he shapes painstakingly, and when he glances again to Ghede he is gone.

Legba but waits for Harry to ask what he must, in what in his life comes next – now that he's fulfilled the prophesy. He'll not know what else waits, and Legba can't wait to say, but first he must be asked.

"I've done it." Harry says softly to empty air, and then softly like a breeze, "what do I do now?"


	25. Winter Kiss, Potter&Dresden

Winter Kiss

CkyKing prompt: Harry Potter/Harry Dresden, meeting : Harry, winter prince/Harry, winter knight

Of a Winter Prince, Dresden has only heard whispers of.

Whispers he does not believe – but then, does it matter what he believes?

He exists. The proof is right now in front of Harry Dresden's eyes. He's also naked, with nothing but his hair to cover him, it slithers over his shoulders down his front, and down the back – so far that Dresden can't tell if it ends at the floor. He's very carefully not looking.

"So, you are my sister's pet." That Mab has a brother is a frightening thought, worse is _this_ is him. His is young looking, black haired and green eyed. Like a shark, this Prince of Winter, brother of the Queen of Air and Darkness circles him, measuring. His tongue flicks out, tasting what he can out of air, forked and snake like.

"You're the Winter Prince." It's best, after all, to be sure of such things. Green eyes roll in amusement, when they focus, the black pupils are like slivers of ice.

"Oh yes, you see, there are no Princesses in Nevernever, Mothers – oh yes – Queens, you would be fool to forget – and Lady's aplenty to bow to. None of that like would suffer a title of _Princess_, most especially as the Knights might then aspire to something. So I am Prince, and will never be King. It is my sister's agreement with me." Wild dark hair, like shadows, plays over his face and Dresden can't see if this man is bitter or not. His face is smooth, a mask cold like ice. What must it be like to be a Winter Prince and know power and never reach for more?

"What would have happened, if you had…disagreed?" The Prince tilts his head, as if before this, he had never thought to do any such thing. Or he thinks Harry is a fool for asking this.

"It would be my death, twin to Mab or not. By accident, my soul came to be in this body – I was meant to be mortal. It would then only be right to take my life if I were so mad as to seek power that isn't mine." He sounds very much amused by this.

"Why aren't you mortal?" Harry can't help but ask. He doesn't know much about souls, but how can they be taken?

"You have met the Erlking." Harry feels a bit guilty, swallows, and green eyes glint at him. Harry nods, because otherwise he feels as if the Winter Prince will go elsewhere.

"He led a Wild Hunt and caught up my unborn soul and gifted it to Mother Winter – I was doomed to die anyway, so she blessed me with a body, so I would be her son. So it is with Summer giving life and Winter taking it." Dresden understands that word play. That he was given another life by the Erlking, something of Summer, and born into a life he would not have had by Winter.

"Do you regret…" Dresden begins, but can not speak, for the Prince of Winter kisses him, and perhaps because he is the Winter Knight, the kiss is not cold.


	26. Savior By Nature, HP&Transformers

**Savior By Nature**

FatesShadow83 Prompt: HP/Transformers - Harry, The Cubes purpose is to create life. (I may come back to this idea, the "prompt" was over two pages long: so this is perhaps it's beginning, I sort of wanted Sam and Harry to meet, both being "two halves" of the Energon Cube)

"_Energy cannot be created or destroyed; it can only be changed from one form  
to another_."  
- Albert Einstein

"_This unimaginably ancient entity is the container of a supreme power that  
imbues us with the gift of - for you I will call it simply 'spark'."_ (Direct  
quote from "Transformers" by Alan Dean Foster - pg.172)

The Ollivander family have been "_Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC_"

The Energon Cube was gone, and with it all hope that Cybertron could be rebuilt. All they could do now was survive - on a world not their own, or so thought Optimus Prime until the arrival of something…unexpected, unexplained – and wonderful.

A sparkling in London.

Optimus Prime watched with his own optics as the sparkling, in the disguise of a Ford Anglia waited impatiently beside a phone booth. It seemed uneasy, even nervous. For this reason, Optimus Prime would not approach until they were alone, as it would be less likely that fleeing would result in success.

A boy came out of the phone box, having not been there before, nonetheless stood there now. The sparkling purred and rumbled, and the boy smiled at his welcoming. A hand patted the hood soothingly, and the door was flung open unasked.

"It's alright now. They've agreed. Would have agreed with anything if I'd asked it, damn the Dark Lord. His death, at least, gave me something good. To Knight Bus then, Ford Anglia quick as you please…." The boy sighed and settled back in the front seat, and with the sparkling took off at a speed Optimus Prime had not expected, it was unchecked – even wild. The sparkling was unconcerned with being seen, going so recklessly, Optimus Prime noted why – no human eyes trained upon the sight.

The boy smiled, seemingly calm and comfortable both with not driving a car and going so quickly: his black hair was wild as the wind. He enjoyed this.

Optimus Prime was pressed to keep up, but they came to an empty parking lot in front of a for-sale store. The boy got out, and standing there silently – then lifted his hand, with a stick in it. Optimus Prime rumbled warningly at this, unheard and unheeded, a sparkling was never to be so threatened, though by that stick the sparkling the boy called "Ford Anglia" would not have been harmed.

Ford Anglia rumbled uneasily, shifting gears, absently the boy petted the sparkling to sooth it.

Out of the air a bus that Optimus Prime could only assume was the "Knight Bus" that the boy had spoken of, appeared, empty of passengers.

"It's alright, they've agreed – that tampering with you is off limits, that if they do, they will have me to answer to." The boy swore it, bright blue green eyes bleeding eerie red. Like the eyes of an Autobot, like the eyes of a Decepticon. Optimus Prime was fascinated by it, had never seen anything like it.

Alarmed, Ford Anglia honked, and the boy blinked and was blue green eyed again.

"Sorry." He said softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if having a headache.

"It is alright Savior, you have done well today. You have killed your foe the Dark Lord; you have won us freedom and a place beside you, always. Do we go to Blackbike then Hogwarts Express?" The Knight Bus sounds like a boy, joyful and happy to please. The boy they called Savior nodded, and got back into Ford Anglia.

It seemed speed soothed the boy, for both Knight Bus (another sparkling!) and Ford Anglia went so quickly to the country side – and after did not slow down. Optimus Prime found it hard to in fact, keeping up, but in sight of them he always kept.

By a pond, another sparkling waits for them, it purrs most dangerously, and Optimus Prime is alarmed for this sparkling knows obviously of war. Fearlessly the boy gets out of Ford Anglia, going to the motorbike sparkling, his hands run over its smooth sides, his head he puts fearlessly against the cradle of the handlebars.

"It is done. You're free." There are tears in the boy's eyes.

"No Harry, we are yours – and you are ours, belonging with us." Blackbike corrects, gently and most lovingly. Optimus Prime is surprised at how deep that affection is, as the bonds of a sparkling are often in flux.

"Always..." Ford Anglia crackles with the voice of an old woman.

"Hogwarts Express comes." Knight Bus says, softly. The earth rumbles like an earthquake, and the sound is like a storm. A black train, long and elegant as any comes hurrying toward them, reckless and wild: Optimus Prime prepares to throw himself between this sparkling and the others, for to loose one would be awful, but to loose all four would be more then he could live with.

Hogwarts Express does not slow so much as stop, sudden and dangerous. This one too, knows of duty.

"Well?" The sparkling asks the voice is grating and rumbling like a storm. The boy stands before this sparkling, unafraid. Even Optimus Prime is uneasy with so wild a sparkling.

"All train tracks are yours to take to, freely." The boy they call Savior puts his hand on the rumbling and shaking train, soothingly. It stills, and Optimus Prime realizes the sparkling calling itself Hogwarts Express is shaking – quivering, at the unknown. The boy had seen that, what Optimus Prime had thought only was a threat.

"Where will we go?" Forlornly, this is asked by Knight Bus.

"Where we want…" Savior answers, firmly. Optimus Prime knows this is the only chance he will perhaps get. He steps forward.

"If I might suggest that you belong among us?" Four sparklings stare at him, and if they had been in a humanoid form, their mouths would be gapping.

"What are you?" Savior asks, only a boy, but the stick is in his hand and Ford Anglia becomes clearly uneasy.

"I am as they are; I am Optimus Prime, a Autobot of Cybertron. What humans call a _Transformer_…" Knight Bus rolls closer, and at first Optimus Prime thinks this is to greet him, but he sees it is not – it is to protect Savior. That much is obvious, that they have perhaps done something like this before – and the boy is annoyed with them.

"Why are you here?" Blackbike asks, bitingly – almost bitter. His rumbling is threatening: to back off or become a target. Optimus Prime takes one step back, to obey the unspoken request, and Blackbike seems surprised.

"I came to London to get a friend of mine, of all Autobots, Sam Witwity, he goes to a London school as a exchange student." At this Savior raises his eyebrow, doubting, or confused.

"Have you not seen nor heard the news about us?" Savior shakes his head, and not one of the others seems to show any recognition of events in the news and themselves, this meeting. Ford Anglia's radio flicks on, and it all comes pouring out – American news, top secret events, internet conspiracy theory's, drawled out painstakingly.

"Muggles..." The boy, Savior snorts, shaking his head. But he seems now relaxed.

"How did you all come to be here? The Cube is destroyed, dead – its only remains within Sam - there can be no other source for sparklings." Optimus Prime asks of them, full of awe, of wonder.

"We were born here, by magic, by the Savior." Hogwarts Express rumbles, daring him to disagree. Optimus Prime does not.

"What is your name?" He asks this boy, this Savior.

"You don't know… you dare insult him!" Knight Bus snarls, shivering in rage. The boy, for all that Knight Bus put himself before him to protect him from the threat that Optimus Prime maybe steps forward boldly between them – risking his life, seeming to keep Knight Bus from attacking Optimus Prime. It goes against every instinct that one born on Cybertron has, to attack a sparking.

"My _name_ is Harry Potter. They won't use it, it's either _Mother_ or Savior with them, and if it's all the same I prefer Savior." The boy reaches out his hand, and as it is a human gesture that Optimus Prime has learnt to mimic, he does the same.

To touch this boy, was like to touch the Energon Cube born anew, Mother – Savior.

Optimus Prime kneels to keep contact.

"Will come with me, Savior? You and your sparklings would be welcome among us." Optimus Prime knows he understates this, the Autobots will rejoice, and the Decepticons will admit defeat against impossibility after impossibility proven as facts.

"Why not?" The Savior muses, and does not protest when Optimus Prime carries him – his four sparklings following after.


	27. Homecoming, HP&PW

_Homecoming_

May Eve prompt: Harry/Percy, with Harry being very obviously toppy and possessive during a dinner at the Burrow.

It would be the first dinner Percy had with his family at the Burrow since…it was too painful to think of, too much of an aching gap. He shook his head in sorrow, and Harry put a comforting hand around his neck, a reminder of belonging, comforting and warm, like a brand of binding, a chain that linked them.

"Alright…?" Harry asked, with a roll of his tongue that did shivering things to Percy's insides. Harry didn't really ask it, he demanded it, and to that Percy could only nod and blush.

"I'm fine." He promised, softly, and Harry let him go with a nod. It was both welcoming, that freedom, that Harry trusted him in ways that no one else did or dared now - and a disappointment. Percy after all, couldn't have all of Harry's attention for himself, always. Harry was born into this world with power and fame, born to be admired, born to have others obey and stand in awe of him.

Percy was one of many, he felt. It might always be that way – he would live with it, he must, and take what time Harry gave him freely, and treasure it – though Harry might never know.

"We're here." As if Percy couldn't see it, but had to have Harry say it: it was a hint, and Percy obeyed it, getting out of the car that Harry had taken to drive Percy from the Ministry of Magic to the Burrow. Drive, because Harry didn't trust Floo. Percy didn't mind, it had given him time, cherished and precious time, with Harry.

"Hey, Percy." Bills says, big brother that he is, he doesn't hesitate to enfold Percy in a welcoming hug. It'd been Bill who had tended to hurts as far back as Percy can remember when his mom couldn't. The thing about hugs is you can't give one without getting one back, so Percy did just that, and gladly.

"Hey." Percy greets back, soft and grating. Bill lets him go, and Charlie pats him on the back, rough and almost awkward. Harry's teeth flash, like a dragon, and Charlie backs up, smiling cautiously.

"Good to see you, Charlie." Percy says, and doesn't see that Harry relaxes. George does see, and ever trying to find him self and fill Fred's shoes, he saddles up to Percy, wrapping an arm about his waist in an almost too familiar gesture.

"Mom's made up all your favorites." George says, amiably, it's all his favorites, sure enough. He sees them sitting there on the table spread, and his mother – smiling openly. Percy can't help but smile back. She pats the seat next to her, and gladly Percy sits. Harry, of course, had followed him – them – and Percy thinks nothing of it, nothing of why. Harry claims the only other seat next to him, and Percy is grateful for this, though he has no words to tell him so.

Dad starts to dig in, serving mom first – and like him, Harry makes up a plate for Percy, all his favorites. Percy thinks only that it's because if he's too slow making his plate, his brothers (and sister) will eat it all up.

Ginny, at this gesture, rolls her eyes – but it does not stop Harry, and Percy – almost defiantly, eats what he was given.

"So when are you asking him?" Ron asks with a raised eyebrow. Percy, at first, doesn't know who he's talking to. His littlest brother is glaring at his best friend, easily, Harry shrugs the look away.

"Asking who what?" Percy asks, the fear creeping into his belly, uneasy, he looks to Harry for a hint. Harry meets his look reassuringly, swallows – and for the first time looks uncertain.

"Would you marry?" Percy shakes his head, it hasn't been done in a long time – one wizard (the more powerful) marrying another off. It hasn't been done, but that does not mean that it can't be done – most especially when it's within a pureblood family – and blood traitors or no, that's what the Weasley's are.

"Who?" Percy asks, hopeless and clueless. Of course he'll agree if it's Harry's choice. It isn't done to cross the most powerful wizard among them all. Harry's bold green eyes flick away, as if shy, as if in disbelief, but they meet him again, sure and confident.

"Me." Percy can only nod, again and again, numb and dazed with glee. He knows his brothers laugh, clap, shout, that his mother cries, that his father grins – that his sister sings of wedding things.

But its Harry that he sees, only Harry – for Harry brought him home, offers him home, is his home.


	28. A Marriage of Ministers, Doctor WhoHP

_A Marriage of Ministers _

CkyKing prompt: Doctor Who/ Harry Potter/ Torchwood : Doctor/Harry/Master, with Harry thinking something like this : He never Saw that coming, what with being the 'wife' of the Prime Minister who is also an insane Time-Lord hell bent on world domination. And is that some 'tension' between the Doctor and the Master. (_While all_ _I can think of is that the "Prime Minister" (Master) is "married" to Harry by Harry being the Magical World's Minister for Magic_. _Please note, I know the government doesn't work this way…but, darn-it, if people are writing about "Marriage Laws" for wizards and witches – why not? To those that don't know, the American editions of Harry Potter lists the title as "Minister of Magic", when it's "Minister for Magic" originally. I'm not quite sure why, but I'll use the English type as this is set there and sort of makes more sense when applied to Prime Ministers and Masters and Doctors and Saviors. Oh, and this is a long idea._)

Hermione had odd ideas, scary ideas, and Harry never wanted to cross her (partly because she would never forget it, might forgive it, and would surely get revenge for good measure) – his best friend, his _genius_ best friend – but this? This was insane. He'd gotten the evening paper yesterday, and he'd been on the front page, as a proposed (or, rather, not proposed, voted for, to be instated – he'd even gotten a few early letters this morning congratulating him) Minister for Magic. He in the end, put up a token protest by sitting down with Hermione at breakfast the week after the Dumbledore's funeral – the marked day of the downfall of the Dark Lord and rise of the Savoir, Harry Potter. At least it wasn't still The Boy Who Lived.

"…you'll be Minister for Magic; I don't doubt they'll have you in the office this time next week…" It was Wednesday. Harry caught that bit of Hermione's rambling, and while Harry had known that there _would be_ a vote for Minister for Magic he hadn't paid enough attention to it to realize his name was up for application. Let alone in the running. Now he was elected and he would have to either step up or decline.

"Wait, what? Why?" Hermione blinked very slowly at him, just to be sure he was living, and yes, had a question she considered self-apparent.

"Harry, you've got to stop thinking it's _us verse them_, when we _are them_, or – well, trying to be_ liked by them_." Hermione sipped her tea, and when Harry blinked back at her like a deer caught in headlights, sighed.

"Then I'll just decline it, being Minister for Magic." Harry tried to suggest, shrugging and trying not to give it much thought either way. Hermione nibbled on her toast thoughtfully, and then spoke very seriously.

"Give it a try." Hermione prompted, smiling as if she knew something he didn't.

"You want me to _what_?" Harry said it slowly, deliberately, so he would not be misunderstood, neither his words, nor his disbelief.

"Take the job, Harry – you are, like it or not, the most powerful wizard in the world, naturally you're going to be the Minister for Magic. And I think you could be happy, married to your work – or rather, by it" Her tone was reasonable, she was even _smiling_. Harry caught her last words and munched on bacon, quite savagely.

"I don't want to be Minister for Magic!" Harry protested, but she waved it away, it was a silly thing for him to complain of, he would be – and she would see to it. Her nose wrinkled up in amusement that he would play at savagery when she knew him best – knew, in fact, what was best for him. As her best friend she had to watch out for him, had only his best interests in heart. His choices in employment were otherwise very limited, if he would be employed at all – not that he _had_ to work, but Hermione knew Harry well enough that he would not sit idle at home, he would have to do something – and this? This was perfect - if he would only try.

"Yes, but think of our world Harry – and the muggles! What must they think of us? We'll have to show our world soon, it can not remain hidden, what better way to join their world and our own but with a celebration, a marriage of Ministers?" Hermione was outright gleeful.

"Why would I marry a stranger? Have you even met this woman – is it a woman, Hermione?" At this she seemed almost uneasy. As if she hadn't wanted to bring up this subject. Harry was quickly suspicious.

"Well, it _was_ – but it's a man now, and the magical contract still holds between the Muggle and Magical Ministries as an agreement of an arranged marriage between Ministers, never mind gender. I suppose that you would be married to any Minister while the he – or she- was in office. I don't see our people ever really choosing another Minister for Magic rather then you. So, you wouldn't really be married to them, but to the job. You wouldn't even have to let them know. No harm if they don't read the fine print. It's perfect." Harry knew he'd paled, feeling ill and uneasy.

"A magical contract …for an arranged marriage…between Ministers?" Harry knew he sounded a bit winded, as if he'd been hit in the abdomen. A magical contract could not be broken, had to be fulfilled, upheld, until terminated. He'd be married to a stranger for their term of the Prime Ministry (however long that lasted was determined, he knew but vaguely, by the Queen).

"Right, like being married to your work, only a _little_ literally. Until you aren't the Minister for Magic, or they aren't Prime Minister: and really, who else would you rather be Minister for Magic?" She patted his hand absentmindedly, and when he rolled his eyes knew she had won.

"Well, who is Prime Minister?" Harry gave up, knowing he was – for now – beaten. He hated fame less then he liked the thought of starting off a Minister for Magic who might lead them to ruin: being married or not.

"Harold Saxon." Hermione sipped her tea a little gleefully.

0o0o0o0

Harry and Harold met face to face for the first time when Harry took office, on a Monday. No one had really _told_ 'Harold Saxon' about the small (now blank) portrait in the corner, but he thought it important, as he couldn't remove it. So, naturally he was quite curious about it. He just happened to be staring at it, and scheming, when he saw what he did.

"Hello there." The portrait wasn't now blank, as there was a boy in it. He had wild hair and willful green eyes; he tilted his head and tapped his fingers in a rhythm against the seam of his pants. 'Harold' wondered if he heard drums too.

"May I step through?" He was – for a portrait, and a boy – polite, so Harold nodded and the boy 'stepped through' out of the portrait and into the Prime Minister's room.

"You're the Prime Minister then? Harold Saxon?" He looked about, and the Prime Minister oddly found he was comforted, this had apparently not happened before; the boy _hadn't_ come and gone into his rooms. It was important, privacy.

"Yes, that's right, but really – who are you? That's the interesting thing, isn't it? Boys aren't supposed to come into blank portraits, or step out of them. So, who are you?" Green eyes met and measured him, and his answer was surprising as all the rest.

"I'm Minister for Magic, Harry Potter from the British Ministry of Magic. In your world and mine, our power is… equal, in so far as government goes. I think. They just newly elected me." Messy black hair got suddenly messier with a hand running through it, and a shrug – almost dejected – there was almost a longing look toward the portrait, to a world 'Harold Saxon' couldn't reach. The Master, quite selfishly, did not want the boy to go, so spoke.

"You don't sound very thrilled with that." And power should thrill, was earned, by motivated enthusiasm and energy and ambition: all the Master had and more. This wasn't it, this was tired and won. _This_ had a history he did not know, and doubted the Doctor knew; for all that the Earth was the Doctor's obsession. This was his, the Master's – this boy and his history, his world.

"There was a war, I won it, and they think I want this as a reward." It wasn't bitter, or amused, merely the facts as the boy – Harry Potter, saw them.

"You don't? I'm hurt, I worked hard for what I've gotten, you? You were _given_ it." The Master smiles, lets the disgust settle in the eyes of Harold Saxon there for all to see.

"Never mind that then. I'm just supposed to tell you that the war is won, that I'm Minister for Magic, and that if something happens we're to let each other know. Goodbye." In a whirl of sound and movement, he was gone. To anyone else, he would have just disappeared, but Harold had seen the boy fiddle with a button, had heard the empathies on the word 'goodbye'. Seen too, the expression on his face, the half hurt.

The portrait wasn't blank anymore, and that last look was on his face still.

_'Interesting, very interesting_,' the Master smiled.

0o0o0o0

Eighteen months ago, the Master had found himself trapped between the end of time and the Earth year 2007. What both had in common had been humanity (depressing, and frantic, to his view rather then fantastic and fascinating by the Doctor's own words) . What they _didn't_ have in common, indomitable and inconceivable, was magic. Oh, Time Lord's knew magic, what was magic but another science of nature? Time Lord's in their own way, well, they were magical. He'd never thought about humanity having a magic of their own, yet here it was – the proof in his very one hands.

A relic of a pocket watch, gold and glinting, empty of the soul he'd known it had contained only days, months, years ago – but he had gotten here too late, with a Time Lord's curving mark, the 'S'. It'd gotten it on Saxon Street, off a human Mundungus Fletcher who mirrored his own kind – a Time Lord, of sorts, though Earth born and not of Gallifrey.

"Who's was this?" The Master had asked with locket in hand, memory keen upon his own pocket-watch. That could turn a Time Lord into a human, if used.

A Time Lord _knows_ another Time Lord on sight, always, can sense them – in their head, minds melding and bonding and fluttering like a heartbeat. No wonder the Doctor so loved Earth, here there were the Time Lords of Earth, wizards and witches so called.

Impossible, inconceivable, indomitable.

"Slytherin's, the Hogwart's founder: it was in Lord Voldemert's keep, but young Harry Potter, our hero put an end to it." Fletcher smiled proudly, as if he knew young Harry, and how the end to 'Lord Voldemort' had come about. His name was said hesitantly.

"Lord Voldemort?" The Master asked, brow arched. He knew the meaning of that word, French: flight of death, theft of death.

"The Dark Lord." Hushed, wide eyed. And the Master, playing at being a mere muggle nodded at the vanity of Time Lord's and wizards, so alike to be sincere.

It was then that the Master made up his mind, to meet Harry Potter, to bridge time itself from 2007 to an uncounted, untold future of 100 trillion: Time Lord's had to come from somewhere, and perhaps the Doctor had it right, that they came from here. Certainly on Gallifrey was the story, the Toclafane –Time Lord bogyman – taking away the Time Lord's from somewhere, some _when_ else, putting them upon Gallifrey and the rest remaining all a mystery.

"What's your name then?" Fletcher asked, and the Master smiles a smile that chills the mind.

"Saxon, let's say." He waves to the Saxon Street sign, a twisting side road off Knockturn Alley. His last name, he decides: and what better first then Harold, from Harry?

"Harold Saxon." He mused on that, as it sounded right and when Mundungus Fletcher turned away with a snort, his fingers twitching in a beat of drums, the Master merely hummed.

0o0o0o0

What the Master knew best of all, was defense. So, of course, he had to be high up in a current and controlling government – and he liked the English north accent – so why not Minister of Defense – for now? That way he would know what he was up against, exactly, and in this nothing could be guessed.

That was his end of it, on the human (muggle, mud, how quaint and quietly right!) side. He would be Prime Minister within eighteen months, for he had the Archangel Network to telepathically hypnotize the world. He would win, of that he did not doubt.

But how, oh how, to get the attention of wizards and witches? Particularly, there was one he wanted to meet – his namesake, of sorts – Harry Potter.

To get to him, through a whole race, well nay impossible! No muggle would touch Harry Potter if all wizards and witches had their way. So to get around them, to get to the heart of Harry's little inner circle (a whole family of Weasleys, a Order of the Phoenix – the less fierce Ministry of Magic, and one genius) Harold Saxon wrote a book,_ Kiss Me, Kill Me_ and met one Hermione Ganger (and Ginny Weasley, of now no importance for when he looked into her eyes, her mind, he made sure she wouldn't go near _his_ Harry) at a book signing. 

_A witch of true genius, Harry Potter's best friend: everything started to fall into plan, to maneuver the magical and muggle world into a marriage that would birth a Time Lord empire. He was so close he could not help rubbing his hands together and giggling in glee. _

0o0o0o0

"Harry!" The Master waves at the portrait of Harry Potter, to catch his attention. The portrait, of course, has become quite familiar with his antics.

"Something's happened, happening!" He sing-songs, quite giddy.

"What is it?" The portrait snaps, ruffled hair, dark eyes. Lips that the Master thinks he ought to kiss, as Harry is his, in law, in marriage. They are in this together, if Harry likes it or not, the Master loves it.

"Aliens!" Harold Saxon claps his hands and wishes (waits), and Harry just as he wished (waited for) is standing there, frowning. Appearing out of thin air, this time nothing in hand.

"Where…?" Not impossible, not what, not – _are you smashed at 9AM__? _Not even a 'I don't believe you', or baffled shrug. It's_ where__, _and the Master falls a little bit in love. Here is a challenge, like the Doctor. The Master fancies asking, can I have both? Then wonders who he would ask, because of course – the answer would be yes if the being knew what was best for its continued heath and happiness.

Granted, that_ where_isn't exactly _believing _him is it; but the Master will change that.

He works well with what he has, the Master does.

"Right here." The Master purrs, meaning also (of course) him: but the Toclafane hover in sphere's of three. So it's them.

"What are they?" Harry asks, narrow eyed, he's seen stranger the Master lays a bet.

"Toclafane!" The Master says, liking that word, saying it is like saying chocolate.

"Any you?" The Master's smile is devious.

"Guilty as charged, a Time Lord. And you, you're a wizard Harry Potter, the wizarding war hero, the Boy Who Lived, the Minister for Magic – do you know, I think I just figured out where my people came from, and I'm not the only one either – it bothers me, not figuring it out first. But, you see this little locket of Slytherin, it clued me in, fob watch, pocket watch, what does it matter when watches watch time? It matters what's inside, and no one knows, no one – not muggle, not witch, not wizard has ever opened this little locket. What would happen if I did, Harry? Do you know, I don't know! Only, I think, the Doctor_ might_know. That's whose coming, and oh, you'll_ like__ him _as much as I hate him – or is that love? It's going to be a party – lights, camera, action, adventure, life, and death, aliens, invasions, wizards, witches and magic!"

It's then that Harry notices the bodies, the dead Ministers.

"You're mad." Harry takes a step away, and flickers, fades and comes back, like he'd tried and failed to get away. It looks like it hurts, that Harry is pale, sweating, and cradles his navel. It works, and it doesn't work, and the Master laughs.

He approaches, and takes Harry's wand from his pocket, before his green eyes, it snaps. Bendable, breakable –frail.

"Oh, yes, I quite am. And you? You're_ trapped__. _The thing about where I come from, it's called Gallifrey, but unlike humans, Time Lords don't come from there, weren't we'll say – _grown_ – not from evolution, not there. I know, as not every Gallifreyans is a Time Lord, and not all Time Lords are Gallifreyans. So you see, you really will see, I think – and I'm a genius – that you're the first, the_ very first_Time Lord. What makes a Time Lord a Time Lord is the Untempered Schism, a gap in the fabric of reality. They make eight year olds look into it, I looked into it – the Doctor looked into it, can you _imagine_ what that does –more, oh, what could _do that_? Well, I'm going to do that. Today, one tenth the population is going to go away, very far away. All the wizards and witches will find themselves on Gallifrey, not dead, but saved. All of them but you." The Master's arm is over Harry's shoulder and Harry can't get away – his magic feels torn, inside – and it hurts. He hates that he feels so weak, and when the Master guides him down the stairs, keeping him steady so he does not fall down them head first, he's grateful not to make a fool of himself.

He meets the President of the United States, he thinks, but the Master keeps a warning grip around his neck, and a smile on his face. This is his plan. His trap, a trap for Harry – no, he doesn't think so, not only for Harry. He mentioned another Time Lord, and maybe that's just what they call wizards and witches on Gallifrey.

There is an itch at the corner of his eye, and it tells his eyes to look away – he doesn't.

The Doctor, it must be. The Doctor among three.

Out of that corner of his eye, he also sees the Master smile knowingly.

Harry has no time to warn him, as a van arrives full of a family, and this is bait too, for the only girl who has a family, for no one who has a family would stop her for wanting to kill the Master. Harry wants to do just that, but he's pulled along in the Master's wake.

"I built this." The Master says, as if Harry should be proud. Or he wants Harry's approval.

"We want the Master." The Toclafane say, over and over like a cheer: the Master raises, taking Harry with him, his fingers cold, his tone clear.

"Alright, alright – let the invasion begin!" And then he does it, rips a gap in the fabric of reality. You could go anywhere, any when from that point. With a song, a dance, they send the wizards and witches off. All the world mourns, thinking one tenth are dead.

The gap closes on this side; it'll be open till the end of time upon Gallifrey.

0o0o0o0

Ron is gone.

"You may be the last Time Lord, Doctor – but he…? He is the First. And from him, thanks to you, this Earth is where the Time Lord Empire rises."

Hermione is gone.

0o0o0o0

Everyday of the year that never ends, (they call it the "year that never was") which is never to be remembered by those on Earth, Harry wakes from the Master's bed.

"I hate you." He says - giving voice just once to misery, to mourning, to a depression that hinges on his survival, his sanity: just once a day.

"I love you." The Master returns, gleefully.

0o0o0o0

"Can you save them?" Harry Potter asks the Doctor, in his dog house, on the day Japan is burning. They are talking about people, about Earth, about Toclafane too.

"No, but I can save you, save him. I will, just watch, just wait –survive, please." The Doctor reaches out, to touch, and Harry pulls his hand away, weeping and shaking his head silently. It's the last thing the Doctor says, after all it's the day he realizes what Harry will never say, what the Toclafane are.

The Doctor has made his choice.

And the First Time Lord, he has made his.

0o0o0o0

"Hey pretty boy." Jack greets, glibly.

The Doctor and the Master share much alike in differences and similarities, but in one thing that they are is Time Lord. And Jack, a fixed point in time, what has to happen, makes them uneasy. The Master is happy to chain Jack away out of reach, but within it, and forget him.

They are prejudiced against Jack, time agent, for Time Lords are a people who can change things, and things not changing it makes them….disturbed, prejudiced.

Worry.

Harry, First of Time Lord, so called, is only really relaxed when he rests against Jack's legs, at his feet.

There is something greater then he is, then Time Lords will be, and it gives him ease to feel it in his blood and bone when Captain Jack Harkness, a fixed point in time, is a warm and living and breathing being at his back. Hope for maybe.

Time goes on, after all. Jack does not die, but lives on.

"Captain..." Harry greets respectfully, the only real respect Jack gets here and now – but it will not always be so. He vows it so.

0o0o0o0

"He will expect something." Harry tells them, as the Master oversees his many statues being placed all over America.

The Jones is the family he saw the Master trap, just as the Master trapped him.

"He's hunting her, my baby – our daughter." Harry nods, in agreement.

"We must give her time, she has the key – so what we plan. It will hurt. It will be pathetic and hopeless. It will push him thoughtlessly into doing what he wants, what we want." One thought, one moment, only.

It's an impossible gamble, to save the world, all the world must think one thought. And it is Doctor.

It hurts, it's pathetic, and it's hopeless.

It's humanity.

And if Harry is the First Time Lord, then he is also human.

0o0o0o0

Jack Harkness can't die, but it never struck Harry that the Master could die: would choose to die - to spite the Doctor, as the Last Time Lord. The bullet came from Martha Jones.

"I won't let you die." Harry tells the Master, tells the Doctor both. They frown, unknowing and unsure of his meaning.

Harry's magic has been itching at his fingers, for a year, but a wizard must learn wandless magic, and magic of any kind takes time. It took Harry eleven years to learn to use magic with a wand, he is no wandless wizard.

What he is a Time Lord.

And he gives it, the glowing magic, gives it to the Master, forcing his hearts to beat, his regeneration.

It's a choice made for him, just as the Master made Harry's choice.

"No! You're killing yourself – to save him!" The Doctor realizes struggles to stop him, anguish in his tone. He'd wanted to save them both, Harry knows. It's Harry's turn to look at him, eyes glowing green and gold.

"A gift, Doctor." The First Time Lord says to the Last, so there will be neither First nor a Last, but Time Lords together.

The Master gasps and breathes and his regeneration is unchanged.

"The TARDIS." He gasps, grabbing weakly at Harry and pulling, struggling, for be damned if he will live at the First Time Lord's death day, living on while Harry did not.

"What? Oh, I'm an _idiot_!" The Doctor's grin is proof that he doesn't mind being one, for once he has not all the answers – and it saves a life. Jack helps them, hauling Harry in as Doctor and Master open a hatch to the heart of the TARDIS.

The TARDIS reaches in, and Harry opens his eyes as a heart touches his: two hearts beating under his breast.

"So that's how it is?" The Doctor murmurs, touching his chest smiling.

"Now what?" The Master sighs, running slim fingers through Harry's hair. His head is on the Master's thigh, and neither moves, for while it does not feel right, it is not wrong. The beat of drums in his head is silenced with Harry near.

"We go on." Harry answers, as Time Lords must.

"Yes, but to where?" Jack muses, and the Doctor laughs.

"Where indeed, does it matter, where? Or _when_?" The TARDIS sings, fading away from sight, but not mind, not time.


	29. Starlight, HP&FF12

_Starlight_

Shade of Euphoria: (What if) Harry OR DRACO! Was a viera?

There is nothing faster then light, science claims. A different knowledge, that of magic, knows otherwise.

So Harry Potter sits and waits, it is dark and the stars are all alight, and though there is a black robe over him, it does not hide him. His ears are long and sound sensitive, his feet give him away, covered by high heeled boots. He does not fear that he'll be approached before he can hide away, for his ears both give him away and give warning keenly. If they ever fail – and never had they yet – he would smell the being that watched him.

He is not human, not merely wizard, he is viera. He is also male, and among the viera that makes him something like the Feol Viera, outcaste, exile. He searches for a world among the stars that viera men may claim, he is a scout here – but not alone.

Above a planet much like Mars shines, suddenly, and Harry cups his palms together, for this had been what he waits for. Light fills it; life fills it, a life that Harry Potter left behind.

"Hirri." It's his name, his real name, and Harry Potter – Hirri, bows his head to the greeter. He is silver haired and storm grey eyed, where Hirri has hair black as this night, and eyes as green as any living thing.

"Dray." On another world, their world, Dray sits under a night sky like this, cups his palms, and breathes the air of Ivalice.

Together they whisper the night away, and come dawn, Hirri becomes Harry, ears tucking into the wild black hair he is known for. Like a living thing, his hair is, never will they know what lurks in it. It is bitter sweet, to meet and love by starlight, and part with the sunlight: but it is a way of living that Harry does not grudge.

There will be another night, he has merely to wait.


	30. Met By Magic, Hp&Stargate Atlantis

_Met By Magic _

HiddenByFaeries: Stargate: Atlantis/Harry Potter Crossover, Todd/Harry: (_Meeting)_

After you've killed the man who made your life miserable, single handedly ending a magical war: what's left to do?

_Live_, Harry had told Rita Skitter.

So that's what Harry Potter is doing, so far from Earth he doesn't know the stars of the night sky: the only wizard in the Pegasus galaxy – maybe - certainly the only one from Earth.

Just out of Hogwarts, he'd been in the Ministry, and that had led him to the Stargates (yes, more then one – two in fact). How wizards and witches might have come to Earth, from the stars. And the thing about the Stargate was that it was missing, so no one could prove anything. It was all lore and myth. Harry had been determined to find out if they were truth or lies, after all how many Stargates could there be? They were unique and used an energy science knew but could not truly put a name to. Magic, Harry called it (not out loud) and shown up on the Russian base, talking about it. He was the only wizard who would, so they took him in and trained him, and sent him off to different worlds all in the name of science.

Harry Maybourne had nearly screwed it all up.

They'd been lucky, to keep exchanging information and technology. For Harry Potter, it wasn't enough. When SGC had announced its intention to send international teams to Atlantis, Harry Potter would – of course – be going. So here he was, a wizard among muggles, and he couldn't get a flashlight to work for spit.

"Stupid switch, stupid electricity…" Harry muttered, and finally gave up and swished and flicked his wand, with a mutter of _Lumos_.

And then there was light. Harry smiled in satisfaction – finally, something that _worked_!

And a wraith.

"Oh –ah - um, Todd? What are you doing here, sneaking about in the dark?" Harry's voice might have risen, but certainly Todd wasn't about to point that out as a sign of fear. Harry already knew that. Instead Todd slowly blinked; just to be sure what he was really seeing was real.

"How are you doing that, Harry?" Todd asked, calmly. Far more calmly then a muggle would take it. This was a Wraith, they sucked the life out of you, all before they flew in hive space ships and sent darts to terrorize worlds. Harry took a step back, and Todd followed.

"Doing what?" Harry asked pretending innocence with a worried smile.

"Making that light." Todd tilted his head toward it, mimicking Harry's smile far more successfully. Harry tucked the want behind his back, dimming the light, making it's source unsure.

"Oh, it's ah – electricity, science, you know all that Earth stuff." Todd inhaled, deeply, scenting him. Harry glanced backwards and away, this was an empty corridor – outside his door, his rooms which opened to anyone. There was no protection there (and what Todd might find there would make this situation all the _worse_ if he knew how and where to look) and no witnesses: it was a bad situation all around.

"I don't think so, there is something _other_ about you – Harry Potter, and you know what?" Todd had him against the wall, that was what. Harry's head was full of every spell he knew, every chance, every maybe – for who knew what would work on an alien, on a wraith?

"What?" Hair pressed to his face, slick green skin, warm and dry like a snake brushed his cheek.

"I'm going to find out what it is." Todd inhaled once more, sniffing, and then pulled away with a secretive – almost playful – smile. He walked – stalked –_swayed_? – away. It wasn't a bad show.

It was then that Harry Potter decided he'd best keep away from Todd.

"_Nox_." Harry sighed as heavily as if the word was a curse, left alone in the dark hall outside his room. He was at a loss to just to _how_ to do just that. Atlantis was only so big.

0o0o0o0

The thing seems to be, about wraith going away, is they come back as inconveniently as they first appeared. Harry doesn't bother to sigh. He stands in front of Todd and waits. Wizards are particularly good at waiting.

"Where are you going?" From the doorway, Todd asks this, the doorway that Harry needs to get through to go out. He stands there confident that Harry won't do (any) more magic to get him out of the way. The annoying thing is: he's right.

"Away from you!" Harry can admit he is frustrated, but not that he'll give up and lay down beaten.

"If that is what you wish. It will not make me forget what I have seen. In fact, I've remembered. I've seen it before, long ago, when at war with your ancestors, the Ancients. You are one, aren't you?" Todd breaths the words, like a accusation, in Harry's face. Harry feels cold inside and out, and takes breaths he feels do nothing to keep him on his feet.

"Leave me alone." It's a deathly quiet whisper, a request that Todd would be fool to deny.

He obeys, reluctant, but stepping aside to watch Harry walk away. He tilts his head to enjoy the view, inhaling Harry's scent deeply. When he needs to, Todd will find him.

Harry doesn't turn around to acknowledge this, but keeps walking until he's out of sight by turning a corner.

0o0o0o0

"Harry Potter!" Rodney McKay's voice is not one to enjoy waking up to, it sing-songs giddily. At this point it is annoyed and has forgotten for the moment why he's bothering. Yes, Rodney is a _morning person_, it wouldn't be so bad if he were only a morning person, but no – whenever someone needs waking, and Rodney is up, Rodney is only to happy to wake them. That is why Rodney is a _waking_ person.

Harry Potter isn't in need of waking: he's in need of finding.

Rodney is shortly going to find this out, having dragged himself out of his lab when repeated ringing on Harry's intercom hadn't worked, and neither had (three!) Atlantis-wide radio calls ("_Harry Potter, oh for the love of – please, please, please wake up and call your best friend McKay_!" had snarled one John Smith at 5AM) – and he'd had to go and get Harry himself. Harry living three spirals away from the main spiral (big enough for anyone and everyone and everything else, but for Harry? _oh no_) wasn't a hike anyone was taking for Rodney just to wake a cranky English man who had close personal connects with Russians.

"Harry?" Rodney takes one look around, scanning; just to be sure Harry is gone. He is. There is no sign of him. Rodney hadn't gotten lost or taken any wrong turns, Harry simply wasn't here any more.

"Uh oh." Harry had –more then once when annoyed - threatened to go _exploring_ all on his own. Rodney had just never given it much thought, or credit. Quicker then he had taken to get there, Rodney McKay left for the main spiral, and help.

0o0o0o0

"People don't just disappear, Rodney." John tries, for the sake of the team and peace before 12PM, to keep a reasonable tone of voice. It's sympatric, understanding even, and shows none of his irritation that his scientist has single handedly somehow misplaced another scientist in a (alien) planet wide game of hide-and-seek. Before noon, even.

"I'm not saying he's disappeared, John – I'm saying he's gone _missing_. Or perhaps gone exploring, adventuring, on a walk about, seeing the sights. _Without me_, or supervision at all, or back up – and he is important on Earth, John. Little English guy, in bed with the Russians, they won't be happy we've lost him." Teyla Emmagan and Ronon Dex glance between each other, amused at the babbling. The soldiers of the Tau'ri were much like any inspired warrior or leader, their scientists were…colorful and emotional, like children, curious and yet with strong egos.

"Out there?" John waved to the sea, the shore beyond their sight.

"Out there, in Atlantis, he's _somewhere_ – yes- so use your little Ancient gene and find him." Rodney jerked his hands toward the chair, and John raised an eyebrow at this. It was too early in the morning for this, and he hadn't had coffee.

"You know it doesn't work that way." John wished it was a simple as Rodney demanded it be. It wasn't, and looking for Harry with the Ancient technology was headache-inducing and it was far too early in the morning to have a twenty-four hour headache just yet. True, people were supposed to wait twenty-four hours before reporting a missing person, but this was Atlantis, in the Pegasus galaxy. Harry couldn't be too far away. They would look the old fashion way, and if they found Harry that way – thanks be to common sense.

"And you know the scanners won't pick Harry up." Rodney snarled, with a roll of his eyes.

"Why won't they?" Todd has snuck up on them, or something, for he was suddenly in the doorway looking in. Or rather looking as if he didn't know if he should be going in or out, and none the less his curiosity had gotten the best of him.

"It's weird. But, basically, by genetics, who knows why – but Harry's got more Ancient in him then any of us. Atlantis wasn't designed to _spy_ on other Ancients, just people like us, and Harry is Ancient enough that Atlantis won't show us where he is even if he wanted to be found." Rodney frowned, but dismissed it with a shrug. He'd learned to live with it after doing everything to study Harry but dissect him.

"I could probably find him." Todd muses, walking away. Ronon stares after him, wide eyed. Teyla nudges him with a shoulder and a frown.

"What is it?" Her eyes are dark, and Ronon doesn't meet them, he stares after Todd as if he wants to follow.

"There are only two ways Todd could find Harry, just like that – one, he's a Runner like me – or…." Ronon shook his head, as if he didn't want to say.

"Or?" John pressed for more information, feeling he needed to know even if he didn't like it, and because it was John, Ronon answered.

"Or Todd's fed on Harry." Ronon didn't like to say it, but did.

"Well, that's his – _their_ – business – yeah? Whatever floats his boat, I guess." Rodney gave a little shudder. John flushed, because Todd had taken and given him life, and it had been Ronon who explained – bluntly – that _that_ was sex to the wraith.

"I'll keep an eye on Todd." Ronon had shaken his head, as if he didn't believe it to be so simple, or that Rodney was so blind.

0o0o0o0

Not even a half hour later, Todd had Harry back in the lab, and Harry wasn't talking to Rodney about '_it'_: which he was grateful for, and insulted by. Harry was one of Rodney's friends. Okay, so it was more like Harry was the only one outside his team and Beckett (who was frozen) who _tolerated_ him: that was what a friend was, in the end, to Rodney: someone who was there and who gave a damn (not how much, just enough).

When they were finished for the day, Todd was waiting to walk Harry 'home': which was creepy. Harry agreed with Rodney apparently, and silently (while Rodney had said "You know you're being the creepy, possessive, stalker Wraith boyfriend type, right?" to Todd's face), so refused. (When Rodney had asked where exactly Harry was sleeping the next morning, on account of his bad breath, bad hair, and using the lab showers, he'd shrugged and said he was camping around).

There was no finding Harry in the mornings, or at night. He showed up to work on time, spent the day glued to someone's side (Rodney was good at noticing things and patterns were one of those things, it wasn't always Rodney's turn, but it was someone in the lab who didn't care to go out that day – and wasn't scheduled to go through the Stargate) and avoided any public place that he might run into Todd. It was like they were once-lovers now avoiding each other.

It had to end, either in courtship (because once Ronon had started following Todd, he hadn't stopped, and at lunch every day Teyla – who Ronon passed his information onto – clued them in). Creepy as it was to think of _Todd with Harry_, Harry was becoming reclusive and…cranky: like a paranoid, and that just wasn't like Harry.

0o0o0o0

"Why are you doing this?" Teyla demanded after one week of not seeing Harry at breakfast, lunch, or supper – but getting passed bits and pieces of Todd's hour-to-hour activates, courtesy of Ronon, who was still following Todd who was still stalking Harry. She felt by now that knew too much of Harry's schedule, and it felt like an invasion of privacy.

Worst was that Harry knew it, as Todd made his presence obvious: but Harry didn't bother to say anything or get help. It was as if he thought that he needed to protect them (_them_, being everyone on Atlantis) from Todd, so let himself get stalked.

"Do you not think it strange? He is the only true pure-blood Ancient left in the Pegasus galaxy – and he _came from Earth_, was born there. What power does he show? What potential?" Todd stood outside the lab, just leaning there and waiting. Harry was inside, avoiding him. Eventually Harry would come out, Todd would greet him, follow him, and Harry would continue to go quietly insane. It wasn't healthy, Todd's obsession and Harry's…silence.

"He is Tau'ri." Ronon was leaning on the other side of the wall, across from Todd. He'd made it very clear that he was following Todd – and Todd, who seemed amused, otherwise didn't care.

"Is he? He certainly looks Tau'ri, I grant you – but so do you, Teyla, and you have something of my people within you." Teyla curled her lip, disliking the association, but nodding to go along with it and get Todd to go on.

"You're point being?" She hinted, when he didn't. He leaned, closed his eyes, and breathed, as if snatching a scent or thought from the very air.

"What if he _isn't_, what if he is pretending?" Todd was fascinated by whatever stray thought or scent he had caught, smiling absently, with favor. Teyla inhaled, and realized, what Todd was scenting, was snatching the thoughts of, was Harry.

"What proof have you?" She hissed the words, threateningly. At last Todd opened his eyes, took her seriously.

"What business is it of yours – of ours, if he hides what he is in plain sight?" Todd shook his head, with a sigh. This was a Wraith who had been here – living - ten thousand years ago, when the Ancients lived, he had tasted of a Ancient's life, perhaps – though that thought was near repulsive in a sacred way. And if he saw Harry as more like an Ancient then a Tau'ri as the technology of Atlantis itself agreed – who was she to argue with it? How was her question, and why now wasn't her business. What was – was that Harry was a friend – their friend, and Todd clearly wanted closer to him, while Harry fought to keep him at a distance.

Todd was a Wraith, and the Wraith were _dangerous_, perhaps Harry had reason to keep away, and they were not careful enough to see it.

"Oh, but haven't you noticed? He's been hiding for a very long time – and I? I want to know why, and from what." Possessive, protective, and arrogant, Todd did not move from his post – as if he did not stalk and follow Harry as plainly as they saw it, but protected him from dangerous things they did not see.

"Why not ask?" Teyla asks, eyes flicking between the door to the lab and where they three stood.

"Why would he tell me? As you've pointed out – his race and mine had been… enemies." Todd breathed in, deeply, as if he wished it had been another way.

0o0o0o0

"Hey, Harry, stop for a minute? We need to talk." John Sheppard called out, because Rodney, and Teyla, and Ronon – all of his team, but him – saw something _wrong_, and he trusted them to notice things, when John only knew Harry as the guy who got Ancient tech to _work_, even when John was sure it wouldn't.

"Sure." Harry was defiantly twitchy, eyes flicking to where Todd stood. He let John walk to him, keeping his gaze on Todd, and John stayed between them. There was something in that look, a warning – a threat - that John thought was for him, but knew wasn't. And that was wrong, because Harry had never been intimating or threatening that John remembered, not in the least – quite it's opposite, if anything.

John had thought he'd be the one protecting Harry, in this, but it seemed to him that Harry needed no protection. Even if he offered it, even if Todd offered it – he wondered what Harry thought of that, if he was insulted.

"What's going on here - between you two?" Above the lights flickered, Atlantis responding to an Ancient's distress. John knew it wasn't just a random power flux, he was standing right beside Harry – between the two of them, and John knew who had stronger Ancient genes. Harry was it, John realized, a living breathing Ancient - as close as anyone would come.

"He's running." Todd spoke, not coming closer, but clearly wanting to do just that.

"What, why?" John looked between the two of them, confused, conflicted. He was torn to which side he would take.

"Imagine it John Sheppard, the Ancients coming to Earth." Harry's breath came out in a hiss. A warning. His fists clenched but John felt it, the power built in the room, the power that flickered the lights of Atlantis in warning. It came from Harry. John froze between them, not taking a step away or forward. He was waiting for it, this was the calm before the storm, and all of them had been to blind to see it.

"Hiding, breeding, don't you think they _might_ have forgotten – the pure-blood Ancients, they forgot who and what they were. Yet they kept hiding, they kept running – and they thought they were running from you, from the Tau'ri. They weren't – they weren't even running from the Wraith. They were running…running from the Ascended, from themselves – can you imagine it?" Todd mourned, it was clear, mourned for them, the loss, the distance, the fear that kept the greatest of races among the Tau'ri, hidden.

"And he's realized it." Todd did now dare step past John, as if John was a barrier between them, a line that Harry did not want crossed.

"The question is- what will you _do_ about it, Harry Potter? Your people are still hiding in the dark, waiting, and out of all of them _you are not_, why not? What drove you out?" Todd murmured, so softly that John has to strain to hear – and then wondered if he should, this sounding like a conversation that should be kept private.

"I'm not afraid of you." Harry hissed, softly. Todd dared to raise his hand, his palm, his fingers and put them against Harry's skin. John took a breath, to protest, but when Todd spoke his voice was gentle, a whisper.

"What are you afraid of?" Todd inhaled, eyes shining, waiting for a word, an answer. Harry didn't move away, didn't move any closer, but took a breath of his own, as if Todd has stolen it.

"I'm alone here." Harry admits it, blinking and breaking eye contact to glance about them. They were alone in the hall, and John noticed all the doors shut, Atlantis having obeyed Harry's silent plea for privacy.

"This is a city, built by my people, it should be living and breathing – _alive_ – I've seen it's like before, gone to school in a building where the pictures moved, the staircases likewise, and it was magic – but this, this is dying. It's old. Not because it was sleeping, but because we are – _all, _all that's left – dying out. There are others, on Earth – we call ourselves wizards, witches, and there was a war, has been a war raging since before I was born. I thought I finished it." Harry shook his head, and Todd's thick fingers and sharp nails moved with him, though it would have been easy to let go in fear of hurting him.

"Your people, the Ancients on Earth -wizards and witches, they war with each other even now?" John spoke, shakily. He couldn't imagine it, on Earth, a war that no one saw.

Harry closed his eyes and when he opened them, they gleamed like green gems.

"They war after death, as the Ascended and the Ori. It doesn't end, when I die – on and on, warring into eternity." He blinked back tears, and Todd enfolded him in his arms, crooning. Like that, perhaps nothing could touch him, perhaps he felt safe.

"Then I will not let you die." Todd promised, nuzzling at Harry's dark hair. John didn't know if Todd could promise that, but if anyone could – it was him. Todd held him, and Harry let himself be held, opposites like Yin and Yang, healthy living skin and pale snake green skin, wild black hair and long white, slim and dangerous, tall and imposing, Ancient and Wraith – impossibilities, probabilities.

John let out a short bark of laughter, if they could love and live with each other – the rest of them surely had a chance.


	31. Bloodline, Potter&Dresden

Bloodline

CkyKing : Lily Evans unknowingly held an entity within her, The Archive, not having the right power to awaken it. But, when she sacrificed herself for her son, the Archive passed onto him, to await a girl born to Harry's line. And, with Voldemort trying to kill his Host, the Archive awakened itself for the first time in a boy. I would like to see how the signatories of the unseelie accord would react to the first Male Archive in existence.

_These are the facts._

_I know everything._

_Well, perhaps not everything (there is always more to know) – but everything any human has ever known by sight, sound, touch, taste, and scent – I know. I do not learn, I know all. _

_I am the Archive. _

_I am Harry Potter. _

_And the Dark Lord is trying to kill me_.

Ever since the first Archive there has been the bloodline, the family. (The family is not found under solely one family name, it spans countries and oceans and islands.) The family is made up of individuals of men who are (all) the carriers of the Archive, and women who are (all) the hosts of the Archive. There can only be one _active_ holder (but all women of the family are hosts: all men carriers) and she lives until she dies and the Archive is passed on down the bloodline – it is not always her daughter, it may be a sister's or a brother's daughter, a niece or cousin may be holder after her – or none of them at all, but another member of the family. There is always the Archive, but the Achieve is not always _active_. As long as there is the bloodline, as long as there is the family, the Achieve lives and learns and _knows_ as humanity grows.

No one knows how much the Archive knows, no one has dared ask.

It is known that even the lesser Queens of Fairy acknowledge the wisdom (and power) of the Archive. Or else why make the Archive a Freeholding Lord of the Unseelie Accords? It is thought that the only holder of the Archive would be female, but no magical construct that acts as the repository of all (mostly human) knowledge and wisdom could be one gender or another.

The goal of the Archive is survival, and women are protected in many of the world's societies. As a Freeholding Lord of the Unseelie Accords the Archive is above all, _neutral_. Then it happens, the family – the bloodline that hosts and carries and holds the Archive is being one by one hunted down.

The Archive first hides within the family, and the murdering, the slaying, the blood and death. It does not end. A child of the Archive's family is born that sees the slayer of his kin, and would surely die for this 'crime'. Now though, the Archive _knows_ who hunts its family.

Now the Archive intervenes. It loves, it lives – and Harry Potter wakes up on his eleventh birthday with the Archive's all-_knowing _presence: Harry Potter calls it a '_smug bitch'_. The Archive knows its holder is probably right, and is satisfied with this agreement between them.

"Why me, if the family is so big?" Harry asks this of the Archive, of himself that first day. He will never be one or the other; he is Harry Potter and The Archive. He, if you will, talks to himself – questions himself, and answers. It is not the most disturbing way to go about reasoning, but the Archive while quite sure Harry Potter is _sane_ knows that this does not help Harry Potter believe he is sane.

Harry checks his refection and answers his own question.

"You are a wizard." He fingers his wand thoughtfully; he knows all spells (invented). He does not have to learn them to know them. He is knowledge and wisdom. How _good_ he'll be at all he knows in practice is –questionable.

"Yeah, exactly, and you – you _like_ girls." The wand points at the refection, and the grin is there – mocking and open. The Archive, having been held in female bodies of Harry's family rolls its eyes and snorts.

"Who doesn't?" The Archive goes on, justifying.

"I don't think I do." Harry is thoughtful, frowning. The Archive is comfortable with this, its holders have been women – but not all women like men, some of its holders had liked women. It knows men like men. These complexities in relationships it knows, has studied, but will not share yet with an eleven year old boy. Regardless, the boy is trying to distract it.

"Think. You _know_ who has killed the family, who will continue murdering your family. We must protect them. We must save them. This is what I saved you for, and we will do it." The Archive traces the mark upon its brow, the lightning blot, and smiles. It knows how to rid itself of such a mar, but will not – Harry Potter will not, because he likes it. It…suits him.

"There is a lot we know, an awful lot. How to begin..?" Harry smiles, for he knows just where to start. There is a doorway right in his room, that he's never looked at save in the corner of his eye. The Archive knows where it goes, and Harry opens the door.

He goes into Nevernever.

"And who are you, pretty boy?" Is the first question Harry Potter, holder of The Archive hears upon stepping into the hall of the Winter Court – and it is Lady Maeve who asks. Outside all was snowstorm and hail. Here there is a calm that makes him uneasy.

"I am the Archive." He answers, simply and without feeling.

"A pity: I did not know you could be pretty _or_ a boy…" Lady Maeve muses, circling to look over the child Archive.

"I seek to challenge the one who is murdering my bloodline." The Archive is not surprised with Lady Maeve's surprise. He expects it.

"Whoa, wait – wow, _really_? Huh. I didn't know _you_ could do that, challenging someone – you are _neutral_, still – aren't you?" Lady Maeve appears the same age he is, but the Archive knows that the Lady is older then eleven human years old. Knows, in fact the day and year she was born, having been there for the event. Lady Maeve is perhaps the only friend that the Archive can claim – and she does not know it. The Archive has never claimed such a personal bond.

"There is no spirit of the law, only the _letter of the law_ - The Archive has been wronged, blood kin slain, and _I will challenge_." Lady Maeve takes a step back, and tilts her head, slowly smiling.

"You know, I think I _like_ you like this Archive. Though I suppose calling you Ivy won't work well anymore, will it? Ah, well – can't be helped, come see mommy dearest while I will think of another name for you, friend." The fairy do not call another friend or kin lightly, and it means much to the Archive that Lady Maeve does – and Harry breaths a sigh of relief and follows.

"Mother, the Archive has come to pay her – er, _his_ – respects…" Lady Maeve trails off, when Queen Mab looks to them. Her lips are pressed firmly in a thin line.

"His?" Her word is a near hiss.

"His." The Archive agrees, glibly. There is something about teenagers that not all the wisdom and knowledge of the human race may wound.

"Why come here?" He has now all Queen Mab's attention, and his tongue is not tied with the weight of power there in her eyes.

"I _will_ challenge one who has wronged me and mine." Queen Mab nods, thoughtfully. She agrees with him this far, as the Archive trusted.

"How?" She asks it, none the less. Harry Potter swallows, but meets her eyes. He dares not look away.

"I ask the Winter Court to be my ally. I ask the Summer Court to be my ally. I ask the Winter Queen to agree with the Summer Queen in favor of an emissary from the list of neutral emissaries." It is not an easy thing the Archive asks, but it is in fact the first thing the Archive has _asked_.

"Truly, you would go so far?" Queen Mab looks to Lady Maeve who tilts her head in something like agreement. They are both impressed, impressed by what (stupidity or bravery?) neither the Archive nor Harry know, but Harry can guess. The Archive prefers not to, prefers words which can be recalled and not taken away.

"I will _challenge_." The Archive insists, if ever it is to be considered a living magical construct it must protect itself to survive.

"Challenge who?" Queen Mab asks, for the first time.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle, 'I am Lord Voldemort', the Dark Lord. A wizard - a _murderer_." This one the Archive knows, and loathes. Harry delights in the mocking of that name.

"You have this right." Queen Mab bows her head in agreement, and Harry Potter –the Archive – goes next to the Summer Court. It is not a easy thing, to slip from one Queen's court to another, not in Fairy, but there is a path that the Archive knows and Harry takes.

Queen Titania greets him at the hall's big double door, he is expected and does not know if he likes it or not.

"Mother Summer and Mother Winter know you, Archive – and know what you seek, I will try to agree with Queen Mab upon a neutral emissary. Do you have a preference? You have more then earned the right to seek one, for most of the neutral emissaries owe you favor." Queen Titania wraps the Archive in a hug; she smells of flowers and is warm.

"I do not." Harry says into her hair, because he _doesn't_ the Archive knows all the strengths and weaknesses of his (their?) fellow emissaries – and the choice would inevitably injure someone's pride or cause friction. This must be done fairly and carefully – it is why the Fairy courts were chosen as the Archive's "organization".

Its holders are human, the prey of the Vampire Courts; and the Order of the Blackened Denarius are much like its own family of hosts and carriers – and the Archive does not like too much familiarity with fallen angels. The White Council does not always agree with the Archive, for it is a magical construct and knows that they will always see the Archive as such, a useful tool – not a _living_ entity. It is living and so is its holder.

The Fomor are traders by nature and would expect future favors.

So it is the Fairy – both Summer and Winter. This is its own dangers, but the Archive has upheld the Unseelie Accords – and has the respect of both Summer and Winter, what he is asks it not too much. It may in fact have been expected of it as a Freeholding Lord to do so, unspoken.

"You would not." Lily speaks, and her words are fond. Her fingers tap on a pool, the Archive looks into it and sees the frozen features of Queen Mab, she blinks looking back at him. On this side of the pool of water is water, on the other side (on Queen Mab's side) its surface is like a frozen mirror. The Archive understands, yet is still disturbed.

"A neutral emissary…?" Queen Mab begins, thoughtfully.

"A gentlemen…" Queen Titania waves, as if she knows where Queen Mab's thoughts go (and they are so alike and unlike, so who is to say she does not?).

"A gentlemen, eh?" Queen Mab's smile isn't kind, but the Archive never expects kindness from Fairy. Kindness, caring, that is for the short lived, the human.

"Gentleman Johnny Marcone?" Queen Titania snorts, though Queen Mab has said not one name.

"He is a human, as the Archive is. He is a criminal – he is a neutral emissary and has a rule about no children, he has morals…." Queen Mab goes on, pressingly.

"_He_ is in Chicago…" Queen Mab hints, and Lady Lily smiles at something unheard and unspoken.

"Harry?" Queen Titania looks to Lady Lily, and the younger nods – firmly.

The Archive knows it is not Harry Potter of whom they talk.

"I concur. The neutral emissary is named as Johnny Marcone." Queen Titania folds her hands, and Queen Mab's refection-image is replaced by Lady Maeve.

"I name myself the Archive's second!" She chirps, smirking into the Archive's face. His mouth opens and closes, but no words escape his lips.

"Wise." Lady Lily teases him – or teases her counterpart Lady. In the end the Archive nods, reluctantly in agreement. Lady Maeve sets her fingers on (frozen) her side the pool.

"Put your fingers where mine are, and we will go to Chicago." The Archive does as told, and the last thing he sees is Lady Maeve's wink. They are in a pub, but it does not smell badly. The owner glances to them, and pales – Lady Maeve only waves absentmindedly to him, she has other things on her mind.

"This is McAnally's pub." Lady Maeve tells the Archive what he already knows (though Harry Potter has never been here before).

"Come along, you'll like Chicago - it has Harry Dresden!" Lady Maeve skips along, and in her wake the Archive follows. He doesn't skip, but trots along at a reasonable pace so as not to be out distanced. What they look like to the sidewalk civilians – Harry Potter doesn't dwell upon. The Archive knows where Lady Maeve is going, so when they come to a stairway, and a door – the Lady Maeve knocks upon it politely.

"He's all yours." This, the Archive does not know is directed to him – or to Harry Dresden, but Lady Maeve wiggles her fingers goodbye. Then she is gone, and Harry Potter is alone for the first time with a wizard.

"Wait, what – you are?" The Archive blinks, and answers his tone even.

"The Archive." Harry nods his head in greeting, trying for polite. He feels like he's been dropped off with the babysitter, and sighs.

"Oh." Harry Dresden takes a few steps back, unspoken invitation. He is wounded, the Archive – the last holder – she was a little girl, she was _Ivy_. Lady Maeve had used that name, but Harry Dresden had named her – him.

The Archive takes a seat and Mouse noses in, as dogs are welcoming where cats are curious. Mister eyes him, and the Archive eyes him right back.

"What happened, with Ivy. I didn't know she…" This is difficult for the both of them, the Archive knows. Rarely does it appear before the same person in a different body.

"Murdered from behind..." The Archive runs his fingers through Mouse's hair, calming them both, soothing.

"Do you know who?" There is fury there, and the Archive meets Harry Dresden's eyes. Dresden would kill for the Archive, if asked. He does not ask.

"I do, this holder is Harry Potter, and he saw the murderer at only a few months old. I have waited for him to grow so as to challenge the _murdering __bastard_." They both speak, and the Archive knows it confuses Harry Dresden. He is not, after all, the only one whom is furious.

"Do you need a second?" Dresden volunteers, willingly. The Archive shakes his head.

"No, Lady Maeve has …insisted." The Archive can not help his smile; he had no choice at all in that, as she is the Archive's…friend (his first). Harry Dresden though – is also his friend. A friend both dangerous and good.

"Oh, well, I think you need to call Kincaid…" Dresden hints, looking to the only phone in his apartment. The Archive looks to it, blankly. It feels a swelling of fear and hope.

"He lives?" The Archive did not know that, did not seek to know that. Kincaid is his protector, his dear friend. All that Kincaid knows, the Archive does not, for Kincaid as a scion is not wholly _human_ and his knowledge does not apply to the magical construct the Archive is. He is not _his dear friend_, he is the dear friend of Ivy, and Harry Potter doesn't know what to make of it.

"If you can call it living, he's rather depressing." Dresden does not illustrate, but the Archive needs not know more while he dials. There is a number Kincaid gave the Archive which he will always answer.

"Jared Kincaid, you did not fail the Archive." It's all he says, his message – and it's enough. It's answered.

"I _did_, I failed Ivy, failed Lord Drakul." Kincaid sounds depressed, not sounds - is.

"That is Lord Drakul's mistake – and mine, the Archive can not be protected from a murderer by an assassin. You did not fail as my driver." At this the Archive smiles, and hopes his humor can be heard as clearly as Kincaid's depression. The assassin snorts, having a wicked sense of humor that is not lost.

"Where are you?" Kincaid asks, and the Archive knows that wherever he is, Kincaid can get to. He isn't alone. That is what it means to be a dear friend of the Archive.

"Chicago, Harry Dresden's apartment…" Kincaid does not answer right away, and so the Archive knows he is surprised.

"Don't do anything stupid – I'll be there before midnight." With that Kincaid hangs up.

"Too late." The Archive sighs.

"What's too late?" Harry Dresden asks, but the Archive looks toward the door, the day, before answering.

"The challenge is at noon." At the latest hour, twelve is six and six, which is three and three – which is the number of Queens in the Summer and Winter Courts- it goes logically without saying.

"Today, _of course_ today…" Dresden's mutter is like a curse. The Archive tilts his head curiously and blinks. Dresden is distressed, and he does not like that.

"Did anyone ever tell you Ivy…Archive – _Archy_, that you have bad timing?" The Archive only shakes his head _no_. He also does not point out that his name is Harry Potter, which is suspected to distress Harry Dresden – for why after meeting him would the Archive chose a holder with the same name as his own?

The Archive – Archy – does not answer any unspoken question, though it settles between them like a fog, seen but unseen. It is not asked because Dresden doesn't think he'll like the answer. He's probably partly right – but not wholly right.

"_Why_ today?" Dresden further asks, and the Archive watches as he scurries about gathering weapons as if he is going to war. That is question that the Archive answers. Dresden will wish he hadn't.

"It is the anniversary of this holder's parent's death, and also of Ivy. I –she – they will be avenged with my challenge." Even if this holder dies, for that was the agreement the Archive gave, the reason Harry Potter conceded to be the first carrier-holder.

"Okay, okay, I get it – you, Archive are all pissed and vengeful, but what do you want me to do?" When there is a threat against the Archive, the Archive may act against its neutrality. It does not ask, it answers – knows all answers. If this holder lives or dies, the Archive has challenged, and the challenger will die. The Summer and Winter Courts, Harry Dresden, and Jared Kincaid will ensure the murderer of the Archive's bloodline – Tom Riddle, dies, today.

"I suspect Lady Maeve sent me here to say hello, and goodbye. I will thank you; you made it possible for Johnny Marcone to be one of the Freeholding Lords. Whom the Summer and Winter Queens agree upon will not be argued in my favor." The Archive smiles faintly, while Harry Dresden groans running his hands over his face and pulling on his hair.

"You _know_ this is a bad idea!" Dresden accuses, bitingly.

"It is _my choice_ to avenge my family – generations are being killed, it did not end with the self murder of Ivy's mother or the murder of her grandmother, or my mother, my father. My father, he was the last wizard of the Potter line." It quite easy to see that the Archive, the boy Harry Potter, mourn – where one begins and the other ends is blurred. There is no end and no beginning, they are one.

"Damn-it, fine – you want this guy righteously and truly challenged dead. How are you going to fight?" Dresden demands it, and hasn't thought it through.

"Tom Riddle and I are both wizards. It is more then likely he will chose magic." This the Archive acknowledges, touching the wand behind his ear.

"No, oh no – Archive, does your holder – has he _learnt_ one spell?" Dresden is pale, sweating – worried.

"I know all spells." The Archive's tone is not reassuring. It is a fact.

"That's not how it works, you have to learn them, practice them!" Dresden is instant, but the Archive knows this.

"Dresden. I _know_." The Archive grits his teeth, he isn't stupid (young, oh yes).

"Okay, tell me – what spells are you going to use?" Dresden demands it, thinking that this is for the Archives own good, and the Archive sighs.

"Just one." One is all the Archive will need.

"Which one!" Dresden demands it, not asks – but the Archive answers.

"One word, one spell. _Death_." It is very old, and has not been heard aloud and used since Rome fell. There are variations: but the Archive knows this spell. No one else does on all the Earth (that is human) and there is no _practicing_ it. Harry Potter will not allow it.

"I see." Dresden sounds disappointed, and the Archive does not like that.

Lady Maeve appears, wordlessly offering her hands to each of them – the Archive does not hesitate, and seeing this – Harry Dresden takes the hand offered him. The location is Nevernever, and the Archive is not surprised. It was another thing unspoken, left to Lady Maeve to work out.

There stands Tom Marvolo Riddle – alone but for a man behind a Death Eater's white mask and black robes.

There too is Mother Winter holding Mother Summer, who blinks sleepily at her surroundings – she looks to be weeping. On each side of the Mothers are their daughters the noble Queens, and then Lady Lily and Lady Maeve.

Dresden and the Archive stand in the middle of such company.

"Who is responsible for this?" Tom demands and the Archive steps forward.

"Let it begin." Johnny Marcone says – with a searching glance toward Harry Dresden.

"I am the Archive, I am Harry Potter – and I will end you will today Tom Marvolo Riddle." This the Archive says as it claims any knowledge.

"I am Lord Voldemort." He hisses a shadow, a shade – and the second, he is living and mortal. This, the Archive knows, changes things – for you can not kill what is already dead. The shadow lunges forward, a wave – and it consumes, drowning Harry Potter – the Archive, drowning them in darkness. Even as magic is a weapon, it is not the only weapon.

"Harry!" (Who, Harry Potter or Harry Dresden, but it a warning, the one warning that the Archive heeds. Though he does not know who speaks.) The Archive is whole, it is the soul of Harry Potter – but it is not the only soul within Harry Potter.

This, the Archive did not know (no living human knew). This now the Archive fights for with Lord Voldemort, who will possess the boy wizard, who lays claim to his soul and body.

In Nevernever, the shadow, the shade of Lord Voldemort battles within a living boys body – battles the Archive, for a mortal body, Harry Potter has fallen unconscious, and tosses and turns, glowing by turns with dark (consuming, rolling clouds) and light. Lady Maeve goes to him, can not be held back – and cradles his head in her lap.

The light that flashes from within blinds like lightning, a storm is growing in the skies of Nevernever.

_You are weak_. The shade, the shadow, the soul serpent hisses.

_I am not_. Harry protests, weakly and weeping - he feels he has betrayed the Archive, by bringing the enemy within them. Knowing and not knowing, the Archive would never make so foolish a mistake.

_You will be mine, my body, and my soul shall usurp your own_. There are shadows (the shadows are the shade, the soul of Tom Marvolo Riddle) all around, and Harry can not see any light. Any end.

_He is more then one; he exists because his souls are flung (but his body is dead!). He is wide and powerful (a storm) but not unending, even storms end. The damage will…hurt_….This the Archive whispers and warns.

Harry Potter possesses a soul and a living body, and a part of Tom is within him. He understands then, that he was bait all along. Even as the Archive he had known it, but there is a difference in understanding and wisdom, in practice and knowing spells.

Tom Marvolo Riddle gathers his shadows, his shade (his scattered and slivers of soul) and because this is the Nevernever, and it is everywhere and every when, he succeeds in gathering his souls within Harry's body.

_This is the end_. Tom laughs at him, mocks, but Harry Potter/the Archive knows he is right. Fingers that are not fingers (but a shadow of a souls imagining of a body) wrap about Harry's throat – and lips press to his, taking and swallowing a soul not Tom's own – to take the body, there must not be another soul. There must be a whole soul, and the Archive will obey its holder.

That holder, Tom Marvolo Riddle imagines, will be him – and Harry Potter will be no more.

Beyond the shadows of a broken soul, is a shining thing of spirit and wisdom – it hovers where Tom can not see but Harry can, just out of sight within him.

_A trap_. The Archive speaks, agreeing with Harry's knowing.

_Mortis_. The Archive whispers into Tom Marvolo Riddle's ear.

The spell, the one word: Death.

It is a summoning.

Black winged and gleaming, Death bows to the Archive and cuts Tom Marvolo Riddle's hair in one smooth motion. Tom does not even know, he heard only the word – and then he is taken by Death – who goes swiftly and willingly.

_Is it over_? Harry asks, rubbing his neck, whipping his lips - and the Archive gathers him up in light and warmth, in cold calculating wisdom.

_No, it is only beginning – now we live_. The Archive opens his living green eyes.

"Welcome back – I'll not let you do that again." Lady Maeve warns, but in a teasing tone he knows to take seriously. Lady Maeve will one day be Winter Queen, and the Archive, knowing all human wisdom, is no fool to cross her.

"I will not need to." The Archive agrees, for now all of Nevernever will be watching closely after him, for good or ill, he is respected and protected by both Summer and Winter.

"Take us home?" The Archive asks for all three – himself, Harry Dresden, and Johnny Marcone – he knows the way back, but he has not the strength. Lady Maeve kisses his forehead and when he opens his eyes he's in Harry Dresden's apartment, with Harry going for the kitchen like a sleepwalker, to feed his cat, his dog, to make cocoa.

There is another there, waiting. Jared Kincaid is not at all best pleased with him (them), but this is a state the Archive assumes he seeks, for it is the risk of being the Archive's dearest friend.

"You went without me!" Kincaid hisses in a most demonic way, so much so that the Archive is sure his father would be pleased.

"The twelfth noon hour _there_ is twelve hours past here." The Archive agrees. Kincaid rolls his eyes and ruffles the Archive's thick black hair.

"You're just lucky." Harry Potter's smile is cocky.

"I think we will stay here, as it is already midnight – do you mind, Harry Dresden?" The Archive asks, but knows that Harry Dresden does not mind, and is actually pleased to not be…alone, even if he never admits it loud.

The Archive knows.

Note: 1/26/13, CryKing wrote a short one-shot for this prompt called "Dressed to kill" a link can be found on my profile or by copy/pasting the story ID (8811160) to your browser instead of this one (which is #2980919). Enjoy!


	32. A Wizard's Warning, Harry&Beowulf

A Wizard's Warning

WizardsGirl : HP/Beowulf (2007, Movie!Verse) x-over. Harry is Grendel's Caretaker (_For this prompt I went thorough Internet Search Hell to find the movie, just to watch it – as the movie rental place here just didn't have it - and I just want to say – _cảm ơn bạn _"XemPhimOnlineS".com!/Thank you "moviesonline".com, in Vietnamese!_)

- tries to protect him from Beowulf after Herot

- Grendels Mom has chained Harry to the cave or placed a cursed collar or something on him, so that he's unable to leave without her permission (something she will never give, as he is tachnically a "Treasure" and she is a hoarder by nature).

- Harry heals Grendel/ is nursing him back to health.

- Harry is determined to fight Beowulf himself, using Griffindors sword (which he'd been able to summon to himself as he is the heir of Griffindor).

- mild-to-PROTECT THE CHILDREN-rated Slash between Beowulf & Harry

- Beowulf could still have Dragon-dude with Grendels Mom.

0o0o0

'_Don't touch the Royal Dragon Horn, Harry._' Hermione had said – and Harry? He hadn't listened. If he closed his eyes tight he could still hear her, her droll amusement, she wasn't taking herself seriously. Harry hadn't taken her seriously, it was lore, and old, and no one thought it was magical anymore – if ever it had been magical. The thing about magic is it can't be measured, and it gives and takes at a whim.

It took Harry to a time he didn't know, a place he likened to hell (underground, _check_, lake with evil depths, _check_, fire –only occasionally seen, cold – usually) and the Lady.

The Lady who owned him, to whom the Royal Dragon Horn belonged by her own birth-right, and laid claim upon a horde of gold and treasures any goblin king would be in awe of.

"Wizard." The Lady called, stirring from the depths of her lake. She was still displeased with him for throwing the Royal Dragon Horn away before she'd found him.

"Yes, my Lady?" To call her anything else would be an insult Harry could not afford, and what was a title of royalty was its own truth – the Royal Dragon Horn was hers by birth-right, by blood-right, as she was as far as he could figure a Royal Dragon. About them, Harry could only guess.

Then again, his best friend's brother Charlie, he _loved dragons_ – to the point where he went on and on rambling about them if he'd gotten the least bit drunk. There had been a lot of drinking after the war ended the war that had been going on since before Harry Potter was born. So he knew some things, they horded treasure (check – as her lair is a mountain full of it, complete with lake) they breathed fire (he hadn't seen it, and _really hoped_ never to) and at least the Royal Dragon Lady, she shape-shifted. They were also fiercely protective of their eggs, their hatchling-children.

"Where is my son?"

Also a yes.

"My Lady - Grendel did not heed me, he was driven to silence Herot's hall." Harry keeps his eyes low, upon rocks and dirt, he inhales softly to smell damp and earth. They are underground, within a cave where no one can hear (but oh, how _they_ hear the humans) it's the sight of the Lady's lake he avoids. She stirs there. She stretches forward, toward him.

"Pray then wizard, that he returns." Her words growl and hiss, as they should, she is no human. To look up at her would be to admit fear, admit wrong – and that is something Harry must not do. He nods though, obediently.

Grendel returns, and there are two men he drags behind him. He has tasted of mortal blood. Harry closes his eyes, feeling sick. If ever there was a way of keeping him from leaving the Lady's mountains, it is out of Harry's grasp now. This day the Lady warned him of, and knew would come.

"Grendel, what have you done? What have you done, Grendel?" She sounds kind, does the Lady.

"Mother?" Grendel is brought up short upon the path, and goes quick and eager to the lake's edge.

"Fish and wolf and bear, and sheep or two, but not men." The Lady goes on, coming closer. Harry studies the dead men, what they wear – what they might have looked like, living and breathing and not so white with terror. He has asked the Lady before, what time he is in, and always she has answered _'my time'_. As if no other time should exist for him.

"Men? They are small." Grendel makes a gesture toward Harry, for certainly Harry is small. Tamed.

"Men, Grendel. They have slain so many of our kind." Demon slayers, dragon slayers – is there a difference? Harry checks to make certain these men are dead, but knows better then to ask for them to be buried. Grendel will feast and eat well tonight. Harry shakes his head and reminds himself he must not eat any offered meat (and it will be offered, with golden goblets of wine-red blood) not unless he knows what it comes from.

"The men screamed! The men bellowed and screamed! The men hurt me, hurt my ear." Grendel cradles it, as if to keep sound from coming. Harry would try a spell, but no works upon them. His wand is no threat to the Lady Royal Dragon and her offspring. She lets him keep it, as a token of her favor.

"Was Hrothgar there?" This is a warning, and Grendel knows better then to offer harm to _that man_, that man is his father. The Lady told Harry so, that she – a Royal Dragon – will only breed sons for Kings. No son will come into his full heritage as a Royal Dragon unless he succeeds his father, by usurping or slaying.

One day Grendel will take Hrothgar's throne, but he is not ready – he is too young, as both the Lady and Harry know well.

"I did not hurt him, I did not hurt him, no." His denial is quick, eager to please her.

"Good. Good boy, and tender." The Lady, pleased, croons and sooths her son. She is not angry – and at that, Harry breaths in relief, he dares never to interrupt them. And escape would end badly, he does not know where (when) he is, and the Lady would fetch him back with displeased ease.

"Mother..." Grendel sighs, as he is soothed to sleep.

0o0o0

"Wizard, why do you not eat?" More and more often, Grendel has gone out to hunt on men. He does not bring them into the caverns, but brings them – cooked – into the caves to eat with Harry. Though the Lady is his mother, the Lady has left the raising of Grendel to Harry – from egg to hatchling to this half-shifted form in mimic to Harry. A accident that the Lady does not forgive, but lets be a lesson to them both.

"I am not hungry." Harry answers, for its true – the sight of burnt flesh (fingers, toes) sickens him.

"If you do not eat, Mother says you will die. Why do you not eat of the meat I bring? Are you not proud of me? I am strong, I hunt for us…" Harry hears, and understands, and the sickened feeling makes him nauseous. He must not be sick, or Grendel will be distressed.

"Grendel, of what breed am I? What kind of being do you see when you see me?" Harry begins, trying for simplicity. Grendel is not stupid, but he is young, and naive. Harry had raised him, knows exactly how old Grendel is despite his size.

"You are my wizard." Grendel snorts, as if that is enough. Harry closes his eyes, all this time, and Grendel had brought the meat thinking Harry needed to eat, would eat for Grendel – would eat to live. Harry had thought Grendel merely bloodthirsty. He's been a fool, and knows it.

"I am a man." Harry says softly, and Grendel's blue eyes are wide with surprise.

Grendel does not go out again, not until new men come.

0o0o0

"Do you hate me?" Grendel asks softly, touching Harry gently upon the shoulder. Harry's quarters are small and cramped, but Grendel still fits if barely. They are within the Lady's treasure chamber, the heart of the mountain. There are tunnels everywhere, and they crisscross the mountain range. Escape would be easy, if it were not so unthinkable. Harry usually stays close to here, not out of choice, but because he is collared and chained – he has never found the other end of the chain, but it is – he thinks – somewhere here, for here he feels most comfortable and at home. As if he can find his space to breathe.

"Why ever would I?" Harry asks in turn, confused. Grendel can't help what he is, and Harry has taken care of him so long he feels as if it does not matter. In a way the Lady can not claim, Grendel is his.

"I thought you did, I killed those like you – to eat them." Grendel squirms a little bit, so his arm wraps about Harry, protective and possessive. Harry pats it, giving his attention to what Grendel is saying – and trying to say.

"It is not _alright_, but I did not know them like I know you. I do not hate you Grendel, but I should have told you." It is Harry's mistake, that he hadn't, and he wonders if it would have made a difference from the start – or only endangered his life, and that of Grendel. Harry isn't blind to the Lady's ruthlessness; she protects her once-mate Hrothgar even as she pushes away her son, punishes him for taking a human shape too early and having an outside ear drum. She could fix him, Harry is sure – but she does not.

"They are not like you, my wizard; they are loud and know no manners, they fear, they flee. Weak." Grendel hisses, and Harry sighs.

"They would kill you." Harry tells the truth, and knows it – only he hopes it will make Grendel _think_, will make him warty enough to give up this hunting.

"Why?" Grendel honestly seems puzzled, and the Lady will never say, so Harry does.

"You have killed so many of them." Grendel knows his father is Hrothgar, knows his face – has faced him. He is the one human in all the world that Grendel fears, for the Lady had told him not to harm him. Harry – sometimes – hates her for it, for he feels – but does not say – that it makes Grendel so careful and cautious where Hrothgar is only a old man.

It makes him hesitate and gives him a distraction that Grendel could otherwise not have, it might keep safer not to care about his mother's wishes – but he does – oh how he does.

"Do not fear, wizard – I will not let them so near my hide. You will ever be safe with me to protect and provide for you." This is a child's promise, but it makes Harry smile – and Grendel is pleased with himself.

0o0o0

_"There was a dozen virgins  
Friesians, Danes and Franks  
We took them for some swifan  
And all we got were wanks."_

Grendel did not know the meaning of the words, but a song was being sung. He turned, half snarling a warning none heeded.

"Oh, we are Beowulf's army  
Each a mighty thane  
We'll pummel your asses  
And ravage your lasses  
Then do it all over again."

Blue eyes opened, peering out of the cave. From the heights of the mountains, he saw the hall Herot lit.

_"The prettiest of the virgins  
she was so fair and sweet.  
I told her I'd a organ  
For where to spread my seed."_

The snarl became a growl, and there was more then warning rumbling in it.

_"Oh, we are Beowulf's army  
Each a mighty thane  
We'll pummel your asses  
And ravage your lasses  
Then do it all over again."_

Grendel glanced about, and saw not his wizard and not his Mother –he was alone. He listened then, for his own sounds were going unheeded.

_"The oldest of the virgins  
she was a vandal lass.  
I showed her my mighty weapon  
and she showed me her ass."_

This was a warriors song, and this an army singing, and there was no army that Grendel had ever met before, only men, heroes whose songs were briefly sung before their blood was spilt.

_"Oh, we are Beowulf's army  
Each a mighty thane  
We'll pummel your asses  
And ravage your lasses  
Then do it all over again."_

Was an army to be feared, where single man invading to lay claim to a name in a hero's song he did not?

"The fattest of the virgins  
I knew her for a whore  
I gave her all my codpiece  
And still she wanted more."

This land was his, but Grendel cared not for it's people, this army could do what it wanted with them – and their women.

"Oh, we are Beowulf's army  
Each a mighty thane  
We'll pummel your asses  
And ravage your lasses  
Then do it all over again."

Then again, there was but one man that Grendel claimed, that he cared for – that was his – and it was _his_ wizard. Perhaps this army would fight him, and perhaps win – and what then became of his wizard?

"Her sister was from Norway  
She cost me 20 groats  
She showed me there was more ways  
Than one to sow my oats."

Grendel listened this time, and though it hurt his ear, he heard what he thought their answer would be.

"Oh, we are Beowulf's army  
Each a mighty thane  
We'll pummel your asses  
And ravage your lasses  
Then do it all over again."

It was a cruel world, a cold world, but what right had they to threaten was not theirs to claim, to tame? The wizard was his, was his Mother's.

"Her mother was from Iceland  
And she was mighty hot  
She'd need a whole damn iceberg  
To cool her burning twat."

At that Grendel howled – to harm the wizard was one thing, but _his Mother_ no man would dare threaten while he had a ear to hear. In a blaze of blue fire Grendel came to them, this Beowulf's army.

_"Oh, we are Beowulf's army  
Each a mighty thane  
We'll pummel your asses  
And ravage your lasses  
Then do it all over again"_

0o0o0

Harry woke, and woke alone and knew Grendel gone. He went quickly to the Lady (for maybe there was still time) to find where Grendel had gone. What he found made him cold, and sick – for Grendel, he was dying. A arm torn off, and weeping.

"Grendel. My son. My poor son." The Lady spoke, there was no blame in her voice, only pain.

"Mother. They hurt me, Mother." Grendel whimpered, blue eyes still gleaming with life. It was fading, fading fast.

"Sleep now, my son." The Lady pleaded, and Harry shook his head – took a step forward. He dared this time – dared to get between them. The Lady's eyes came upon him, would keep him kneeling before her on the ground like something frozen. It was a warning he did not heed.

"He murdered me, Mother." Grendel blinked back tears, shuddering – from the corner of his eyes he saw Harry, and reached for him with his one remaining hand.

"Who murdered you, my son?" The Lady asked, softly, a murmur, a threat.

"He ripped off my arm." Grendel pained by the reminder, flinched back to touch his shoulder. Where it was wet with blood and gore, where there was no limb. Harry had stopped, because if Grendel named him as the murderer – he would not live long enough no matter how the Lady favored him for his wizard bloodline.

"He will pay, my darling. Who was the man?" This the Lady demanded, this she would have from her son before his death.

"He was so strong. So strong." Dying, Grendel was dying –and Harry was doing _nothing_.

"Who was the man?" Harry shuddered, for the Lady had asked this from the start, and would ask it until the dying breath. She would not let Harry come near until she had a answer, and knew it was not him.

"His name was Beowulf." Grendel started to close his eyes, and Harry went quickly (ignoring the Lady's eyes) to his side.

"My wizard, Mother will keep you alive." Grendel whimpered, a promise Harry knew would not be kept.

"No," Harry said softly, taking his wand and putting it near where the wound pulsed, "you will _live_, Grendel. It is my turn to keep you safe." Harry closed his eyes and put his magic and soul into that one thought, of safe, of alive, of living and _life_. Magic did not work _against_ the Royal Dragon, but perhaps _for_, there was a chance.

"Beowulf." Hisses the Lady, and Harry glances to her, wondering what she sees. For now her son lives, and will _keep living_ until Harry can do no magic or dies in the trying.

"I need his arm, my Lady – or the healing will not make him whole." The Lady nods her noble head, and goes on swift wings to where Beowulf and Hrothgar lay unknowing. Harry does not think of what she'll do in revenge, as is her right, but she fetches back the arm before dawns light.

"What of Beowulf?" Harry does not ask after Hrothgar (for the Lady would not harm him, that is her sons task to claim his heritage) – but Grendel's eyes peer up at his Lady Mother with cruel curiosity. He is his mother's son, as much as he is his fathers. He understands her where Harry does not.

"He comes to us for his blood-price." Grendel smiles, self-satisfied by his Lady Mother's claim: Harry bandages arm to shoulder, and does not think of what using his magic has done to him. His hands shake, and he know he must eat – but he is not hungry. It is much like shock (it is shock?) using up his magic with reckless will and seeing Grendel near lost beyond his saving.

"What will you do to him?" Harry asks, as he is lying down beside Grendel. He didn't know he was cold (and wet) until the warmth of Grendel settles and sooths him. That Grendel is so warm, so alive, like a flame is a good sign.

"A son he might have taken from me, so I take his son from him." The Lady settles back into the dark of her lake to wait, and for a while Harry sleeps – while he can.

0o0o0

"Waken, now – good - but _do not_ move." It's hissed, a warning, a plea - in an unfamiliar voice. Harry opens his eyes to see him, a man that must be named Beowulf, for none other would the Lady let inside her lair.

There is a sword's blade at Grendel's neck.

"Please." Harry begins, feeling tears take his words away. He wants to say, _do not do this_ – or_, will you but_ _spare him! _But he can not, will not, for there is a hand suddenly on his mouth, covering it – it is rough with calluses - big, and thick fingered.

"Shush, easy lad – I'll get you out of this." He whispered in Harry's ear, soothingly: Beowulf is close enough to smell, to touch and taste. That is what gives Harry the idea, he opens his mouth to bite, but his tongue catches on the skin of Beowulf's palm. Beowulf inhales, sharp and surprised – and Harry does not bite down, for what use is it?

His wand, he sees it, near the lake edge.

The hand is taken away, and Beowulf eyes him, suspicious. This is his chance to have his say, and Harry takes it.

"Anything, _anything_ - Beowulf –if you but spare the child..." Grendel does not stir, too deep in his healing sleep. The Lady, she Harry can feel watching after so many months of being under her eyes. If she likes what she sees, she will intervene, or not – trusting her wizard to know his duty and keep her son and himself alive. Harry puts his body between where Beowulf kneels, and Grendel lays, child-like and curled at his side toward Harry.

"This monster, this freak and demon – you call a _child_." Beowulf does not believe it, does not want to. Beowulf though, has not seen the Lady.

"My friend." Harry tilts his chin up in defiance, determined that Grendel will wake – and not die while murdered in his sleep.

"You lay with monsters, not man. What of a man that other men call a monster?" Beowulf sneers, sure that Harry will turn away, and he will have his way. Beowulf would kill his monster and go away – leaving Harry for the Lady. What does not occur to him is that Beowulf intends to kill the Lady, for it is laughable.

"If that is your demand to spare his life…" Harry meets Beowulf's eyes, but those eyes look him over, as if to determine how much bedding him is really worth. Then they flick to Grendel.

"He will not wake. He is in a healing sleep." Harry does not know that, but it is better to reassure Beowulf then leave him with questions that can not be answered.

"Is he really?" Beowulf breaths the words against Harry's lips, the sword against Grendel's neck eases away.

"I do not kill the helpless, be they monster or man." Beowulf mutters darkly, seeing the surprise and hope on Harry's features. His fingers brush Harry's cheek carefully, skin pale from being kept in the mountain, but with a flick of his thumb he brushes wild black hair aside behind Harry's ear.

Lips press to the side of his mouth, trailing to his check, a tongue circling, entering and invading at his ear. Harry shivers, not shuddering, and Beowulf chuckles, low and pleased by Harry's response.

"I'll take the deal you made me, and more." Beowulf promises, husky and eager. His lust is for pummeling, ravaging, but there are more ways to go about that then battle and blood. He draws Harry closer in, for a kiss, invading and victorious, and Harry sunk deep down in the feeling, the flooding of surrender welling up within him. He let the peace of it surround him, silence any protesting, willingly wanton in surrendering.

"Best be silent." Beowulf hissed, with a quick glance to the sleeping Grendel. It did not take much effort for Beowulf to shed his clothing away, and all Harry wore were his black robes which Beowulf shoved eagerly up and out of his way. Beowulf's hands reached for Harry's hips, bruising and swift he had the slighter man underneath him –there was no question in this. Beowulf was panting, quickly and eager, his breath warm on Harry's hot face. With a knee for a wedge he was between the wizard's thighs, seeking, rocking to tease Harry into obeying his silent demand.

Beowulf's fingers pressing then to Harry's lips for entry, this Harry granted him, tongue playing with the long digits. A quick indrawn breath and a low groan, the fingers were stolen away and rubbing into to another place, between his thighs, between his butt cheeks.

Fingers flexing and stretching into him, rough but still damp from his own saliva, Harry could not help but squirm and arch, if it was away or toward, he did not know. Still he kept in mind Beowulf's words, and no words escaped him. Harry could not help the sounds he made. Beowulf's other hand was upon his mouth, their eyes meeting over it in silent agreement.

Beowulf took his fingers away from the depths of him, one of Harry's legs over his shoulder – he kissed that knee, tenderly. It took none of the brutality and force from the deed; it was rough, but a force quick to enter. Harry didn't know if that was worse or better, to have done it slow or quick or not at all - moaning in more pain then pleasure.

Together they closed their eyes and breathed in sync, waiting and feeling each other inside and out. Harry's breath caught in his throat, for he'd felt Beowulf twitch with eagerness within him. His cheeks burned, meeting Beowulf's eyes, and the leer was there waiting for him to see it plainly. He was wanted.

Beowulf wanted this, and that is why they did it, Harry's pleasure or pain would not matter in the end. Harry found a relief in that, and a challenge, he'd _enjoy_ it Beowulf be damned.

His hips canted, and Beowulf grunted – surprised or pleased, Harry could not tell and did not care to know. Like a hammer, like blows, Beowulf thrust in and out of him. There was no gentleness in this, and Harry did not ask it – would not ask it even if he could speak for Beowulf's hand over his lips.

Harry's mouth opened under that hand, not to moan for more- though he thought that and groaned brazen in need, his tongue licking at the palm of Beowulf's hand, urgent and quick as any thrust he'd been given. Beowulf moaned above him, shuddering and heaving. Again their eyes met in silent agreement, a challenge this time. Beowulf determined not to spend himself first and Harry decided just the opposite would be fact to prove their pleasure in this was not made alone.

"You're hot, and tight, and _mine_." Beowulf growls, and Harry's felt bruised and tender (bruised until tender, until seared pain becomes hot pleasure) and can not help but close his eyes against the sight of Beowulf, feeling keenly the weight upon him, the pressure within. Possessively, demandingly, Beowulf puts his tongue and teeth to sucking and biting at Harry's neck, as Harry's lips he dare not uncover by his own hand.

Through his own spread fingers, Beowulf hears one word the wizard whispers.

"_Please_." The first word Harry had ever spoken to him, a plea. Again.

"Yes!" Beowulf grants, the permission for himself or for Harry he doesn't know. Buried in deep, Beowulf cries out. He can not help himself, though his teeth sink into Harry's flesh, sound escapes him. He goes still, and knows Harry is still underneath him, he moves to put himself between Grendel and Harry without thinking of it, bodily keeping Harry close. They are both spent, and Beowulf does not care to know which found pleasure in the other first. They breathe together, hearts pounding in time to each breath.

"You bring me treasure with one hand, and prove you are a thief with your next." Harry freezes, breathe catching in panic. He had known, all along that the Lady watched and waited for them to finish this, that he'd forgotten was a mark in Beowulf's favor – though the man would not now (_or ever_?) thank him for it.

"Show yourself! What are you?" Beowulf called out into the dark of the cave.

"Lady..." Harry rises from the ground, guilty but feeling the need to stand on his own feet, for strength.

"Silence my wizard; I know to whom you have given heart and body, though your soul belongs to me alone. Are you the one they call Beowulf? The Bee-Wolf. The bear. Such a strong man you are with the strength of a king. The king you will one day become.." The Lady comes out of the lake, smiling and naked in mortal seeming. Her skin is gold and that gives away her nature, if Beowulf would only see and believe his sight.

"His soul is his own. What do you know of me... Demon?" Beowulf protests with a hiss, his sword in hand. The Lady is not threatened by it, does not even look to it. Her smile seeks a sword of a different sort. Harry, his face flushed, knows – and looks away.

"He is no mere mortal man, my wizard. You would do well to learn from him, Beowulf. I know that underneath your _glamor_ you're as much a monster as my son, Grendel." With the tip of the Lady's tail she touches Harry's cheek, possessively. Her smile is smug, for Harry does not protest this invasive touch.

Beowulf strikes at her, fury in his eyes.

"My glamor!" She is gone from their sight, from the glow of the Royal Dragon Horn, but they are not alone. Harry puts his hand upon Beowulf's sword hand and shakes his head; slowly she draws near, her eyes judging them and her smile weighing.

"One needs glamor to become a king." For two sons, the Lady would allow this one to live – Beowulf, she senses, would be king of his kin.

"A man like you could own the greatest tale ever sung. Your story would live on when everything now alive is dust. Beowulf... It has been a long time since a man has come to visit me." Shark like, inhaling, she circles him.

"I need no sword to kill you." Beowulf realizes, for her heart she offers in bedding him, in loving him, and cruel as she is she makes him think that the likes of her would die of a broken heart, as a mortal man might.

"Of course you don't my love. You took a son from me. Give me a son, brave thane. Stay with me. Love me... Love me... and I shall weave you riches... beyond imagination. I shall make you the greatest king that ever lived. As long as you hold me in your heart... and this golden horn remains in my keeping... You will forever be King. Forever strong, mighty... and all-powerful. This I promise. This... I swear..." The Lady offers her embrace, and Beowulf takes her: the sword a melted thing between them.

It is not something Harry judges him harshly for, can think to accuse him by - for the Lady draws both down into her arms, netting both at once, drowning them with words that she hears sung from their heart's desire.

That is how it begins: the Royal Dragon Horn given into a Royal Dragon's hands.

0o0o0


	33. Naming Names, Harry&Beowulf

Naming Names

Salios : HP/Beowulf (Verse? WTHK (who the Hel knows)…) x-over. Harry taken by the Viking (god/goddesses).

(_Goodbye to my sanity and Norse dignity of the deities_.)

0o0o0

"_The sea is my mother! She would never take me back to her murky womb_!" -Beowulf

**Hlésey Hall,**** beneath the waves.**

Ran glanced to Loki who had handed her a gift of his making, the first of its sort. Her fingers traced and trailed over the edges, woven, and poked through the loop holes. There would be no net of finer making. It was in her keeping. Her brother trusted her with it; it was a net not even Loki could flee from. One day it would begin the ending, but that was not today.

"Why?" She asked, softly as a whisper like the stirring of a tide-pool.

"You're my favorite sister; may I not give you a gift worth giving?" Her murky eyes pale and wide did not narrow, but Loki swallowed in fear to face them. He most of all understood mortals, their fears and lusts, what made life worth living - and that was not to say Ran had none of his fiery spirit – of lust she knew much more then he, but she netted and drowned men who dared sail the sea. Into her domain they went too daringly. They she kept somewhere near here, and though Loki loved his sister dearly, he did wish to keep her warm in Ægir's bed.

"Loki, I am your _only_ sister." Droll and oh so serious, at last Loki knew where Hel got her sense of humor from, it came naturally from Loki's own sister, Hel's aunt. The dead that died not slain in battle did Hel claim, while salty Ran robbed the sailor's of their lives on land. To Odin went half the slain men in battle, the other half to Freyja's afterlife field Fólkvangr where sits her hall Sessrúmnir. These things Loki knew and kept in mind as he spoke so to his swift sister.

"That you are." Loki agreed, with a wave of his hand.

"So why..?" Wide pale eyes studied him; from them Loki could hide nothing.

"Your son - sister, Edgethow's brat, he needs a _mate_…" This Ran knew to be true, her gaze flicked to her daughters. Hefring had near claimed the boy for her own, and she _his sister_, the wave maiden did not so much as flush or flinch from her mother's quaking glance. Merely flipped her fin at them, and Ran did sigh a storm brewing in the east, for what else would be expected of a daughter between her brother Ægir and she? Loki went on, as the Waves nodded their agreement soothingly.

"You know humanity best, brother dear - what do you suggest?" At this Loki grins, green eyes flashing with a glimmering red and hot.

"Use the net to fetch an anchor for the boy." Ran thought this was best, and cast her net into the sea, closing dead-man's pale eyes to feel the lives in the lines in waiting for her catch.

0o0o0

Harry did not know what was happening until it was too late, his feet tangled at something at the bottom of the Lake. He did not know how long he had, the Gillyweed felt like nothing now, though he had thought to never taste or feel anything in his mouth but cold slime tails. He looked to his hands, as the webbing withdrew, his eyes widening in panic, he bent to try to undo what had caught him. It floated there out of the ground, a bit of rope someone might have thrown in was going to drown him. The merpeople only watched and waited, to see what else he would do.

They saw too late that he wouldn't and couldn't get away, and then when they moved in – alarmed – to aid him, the bit of rope that held him at the bottom of the Lake gave a jerk like a fishing hook. Harry cried out, bubbles of precious air escaping in his scream.

His reaction to kick away only entangled him all the more. His eyesight, already bad with the lack of glasses, grew darker and fuzzier, and he knew he was dying – but it seemed strange to him that he seemed at the same time to be moving upward and away, his body caught in a net.

0o0o0

"What is the meaning of this?" Wiglaf asks, keeping his eyes from the lad who lay sleeping in Beowulf's lap. He had been sleeping since they'd saved him from the sea and drowning, and it was a worry that he might wake, and a worse worry that he might not.

Beowulf had never risen up a dead man from the sea, and never would have guessed the day his mother would give up one of her treasures for the likes of him. Never would she give him a gift beyond naming him. His fingers trailed over pale skin, over black hair, and he wondered at the boy – warm and living and breathing. No dead man at all, but a gift from the sea, from his mother Ran with her net she had traded him: they had only expected fish to be caught up, not a boy. Beowulf had given up telling the tale Edgethow had told to him, and expecting to be believed.

Beowulf was believed now, his men looked to him wide-eyed and shaken, all fourteen of the bravest thanes.

"He is mine, a gift gotten up from my mother." Wiglaf looks to the sea all surrounding them, but does not speak her name: to do so would draw her attention to him, and that might mean his drowning upon the sea. Wiglaf did not shudder, but when he looked again to Beowulf, something was changed between the two of them. Of all his mortal kin, Wiglaf had been the one to claim him for blood family, between them there would be no lies. Beowulf was not one wholly mortal, and neither now dared deny it.

"What does this change?" Wiglaf wondered, and Beowulf watched the flutter of lids, against flushed cheeks, like the pulse that was proof of life: watched the boy's hand tighten around a silver sword with an egg sized ruby gleaming atop the hilt: that too had been hauled up from the depths of his mother's womb. He was not yet awake, but he was waking, and he was a fighter and survivor.

"Between you and me….? Nothing, we are as like brothers as ever we have been – but he and I, there are the knots and lines of a net between us unseen – we two will never be free of them. He's been given to me, and I'll not see my mother find reason to fault me and take him away from me." Beowulf felt Wiglaf's hand upon his shoulder, and the squeeze almost like a fist. It was painful but aware, of here and now – not the _there_ that Beowulf dreamed of. The _there,_ where the gods and goddesses walked and talked - to him.

"You _want_ the boy then – I've never known to you take the favor with a man where there was a willing women." Beowulf rolled up his eyes, and laughter cracked the sky. Upward looked his men and friends, and the sky was rolling with Beowulf's mood, the sea already beginning to heave and dance to the coming storm.

"Do you think the likes of my mother would ever permit a woman to sail with me as mistress of a sea-ship? No, it would be my doom and the doom of any man who dared." Wiglaf's lips twisted with worry, for the warning in that was plainly put. They two were not alone, and anyone might hear it, in a sailors way they would whisper the words of the son of the sea until it superstition became but law.

"What if he does not want you?" Beowulf flinched from underneath his friend's hand, pained, and ever Wiglaf regretted it. Few people had ever welcomed Beowulf into the hearth of hall and home. That this boy might be different, Wiglaf preyed, but was not blind to reality as Beowulf sometimes seemed.

"The gods and goddesses are not so cruel." Sea green eyes, like sea and green living things, opened to see. Beowulf is holding him, with a tender look Wiglaf had never seen the likes of on his friend's features before. The boy's eyes are wide. Beowulf glances quickly to see what so alarmed him, and his look is fierce and protective.

With a bow, Loki appears out of the dark.

"Nephew! Do you like him?" Wide and leering is the grin of the god who looks at them with lust. To the boy he goes, ruffling the black hair in a manner almost playful. He leans down to whisper in boy's ear a word, and it is: "_wizard_." Like a spell, the meaning of the word is finally made plain to him; it is a word meaning kin to god or goddess. Blood kin to _him_, Loki son of Fornjótnr.

Loki withdraws with a wink, though the face of his self-claimed nephew looks as fiercely protective as any bear or wolf. With this Loki is pleased. Beowulf holds the boy to him in a tight grip, using the bulk of his body as a shield. He has no weapon he can reach, but the boy whom Loki does not yet know the name of, lifts his silver sword to the god's throat.

"You brought me here." This the boy knows, eyes demanding the truth. Loki laughs, for his sister had done well for her son. To this boy, Loki will not lie.

"In my own way, wizard, I always will have my way as the wildfire wills and can not be escaped: I've answered truth for truth, and now it is your turn. Your name if you dare tell it to the likes of I." Flashing green eyes and a chin that tilts up proudly make Loki surer then ever he was right to do as he had done.

"I am Harry Potter." There is a demand in those green eyes, and Loki's grin is fleeting for he knows what the wizard wants to hear aloud and now.

"Likewise than wizard-friend, I am Loki." As he bowed in, he bows out, knowing the wizard will not thank him (yet) for this change in time and scenery. He will need time to get used to this, and Loki can think of no one more capable of handling the wizard until they meet again, then his nephew. They will anchor each other through the coming storm to end all storms.

The storms the Norns call Ragnarök**.**

0o0o0

A quick note: from what I've studied of Viking myths, there are two or three main claims of Loki's parentage and person, the first as brother of Odin, son of Bestla and Borr where he is Vé/Lóðurr and his other brother is Hœnir**/**Vili : as blood-oathed brother of Odin son of Fárbauti and Laufey/Nal, brother of Helblindi (whom is another name of Odin) and Býleistr; but it is to the first and oldest I refer to calling Loki in this, as he is called usually Logi or Útgarða-Loki/Skrymir – son of Ymir/Fornjótr, brother of Ægir (the ruler of the sea), Kári (god of wind), and Ran ("robber" the sea-death goddess)– the greatest Loki the true god "giant".


	34. Not Your Ordinary NESTing, xTransformers

Not Your Ordinary NESTing

Hinjintetsusou: .Hp/Transformers: introduction into Nest. (_Ch.__ 26: Savior By Nature, HP&Transformers_)

0o0o0

"Welcome, Savior, to _Networked Elements: Supporters and __Transformers__, or NEST for short." _Optimus Prime speaks, aware that he carries within him perhaps the most precious of resources known to the Cybertron-that-was. The Cube he carries, the _Mother_, the Savior – only one half of the whole Energon Cube. Optimus Prime does not understand, truly how this came to be – the boy, he was in London while the battle was in America. There is something he is missing, and it is hidden in plain sight, if Optimus Prime only knew what he was looking for.

He has other things to think of, for just as he is aware that Harry Potter, the Savior, is most precious to his people, _he_ is not of his people, he is a boy, and human. When Harry puts his hand to the interior look-alike car door handle, Optimus Prime opens the door out; letting the boy leave perhaps the only place on Earth Optimus Prime would feel he was safe.

"For muggles, is this impressive?" Blackbike muses, in likeness to a motorcycle, he is the smallest of the sparklings – but clearly the one with the biggest issues with people. His engine revved in a snarl.

Hogwarts Express snorts, in a bellow of billowing smoke. All along train tracks they had had to travel, it was surprisingly no burden for the train tracks were always where they _needed_ to be – not where they were _supposed_ to be. This is not something that Optimus Prime thought Earth could do, upon Cybertron he would not question it, but here he is not so accepting of the strange. It is suspicious, but humans are notorious for noticing what is happening right in their faces, if it were strange then Harry Potter would say something. That he does not is…comforting, rather then worrying.

Ford Anglia rolls forward eagerly, her sensors taking in all readings of their surroundings and Harry's hand rubs along her hood, soothingly. Knight Bus keeps his bulk between Harry and the onslaught of peering human eyes, clearly uneasy. Optimus Prime had called his people, but there are more humans then there are children of Cybertron.

"I would guess so." Harry answers, and in his own way, defends them. It's said softly enough that the humans do not hear him.

"Hello, who's this? You know the American Government has rules about citizens going into secret security bases – namely, _not to let them_!" Sergeant Epps was saying, though he kept a smile on his face. It was not in fact reassuring, rather in fact threatening in the way he looked to Harry. Optimus Prime starches out and unfolds his form, and it feels good, to sense with unseen means that the humans are yet uneasy. They should be, they should also be guilty for disregarding respect.

"You're not in America, sir. It wasn't my idea to come here to start with, so I'll just be going shall I?" Harry faces the Epps and his people to speak, addressing his words to the tone rather then the smiling face. Ford Anglia opens her doors – all four – invitingly. To enter, Harry would turn his back on them, and once that is done, Optimus Prime knows they will never undo it. The insult Harry might forgive of his fellows, but his sparklings will not forgive humanity – or them born of Cybertron, not Autobots – not Decepticons.

"This is an unsuitable environment for you, Savoir. A habitable one is indicated with favor and fellowship." Ford Anglia prompts. Still Harry hesitates, eyes scanning the faces he sees. Optimus Prime feels that he is looking for something or someone, and remembers the conversation he'd overheard between Harry and Ford Anglia: a "they", a agreement, and people tend to trust agreements with governments. Harry is looking for someone he knows.

"Potter!" A women is stepping forward briskly from the back, what marks her as strange is the wild pink hair with purple highlights, what Optimus Prime thinks strange is her eyes changing from a alarmed gold to a warm brown.

"Tonks." Harry smiles for her, with a solemn nod. There is grace in it, respect and civility. This is someone to watch for. Blackbike rumbles greeting or warning. Tonks makes no move to step closer to them. Tonks looks to Epps, and makes a shooing gesture. He looks vaguely amused, but Optimus Prime can tell her intent is entirely serious.

"He's right, this isn't America – and _this_ is Harry Potter, a war-hero friend of the Minister's and other sorts of people that are in high governmental places, important people that like, the media will be on us like fleas to a dead dog if you stink this up for us – they won't like to hear him refused hospitality, as that Ford Anglia said. Might even get you kicked out of Europe that kind of rudeness will." Her smile is entirely sincere. Optimus Prime notes that this is a female that is predatory, "scary" intimidating, as Epps gives up with a nod, his lips pressed in a line.

When the people back off, Tonks doesn't hesitate to encircle Harry in a hug - Optimus Prime wonders at the important people she so lightly mentioned, wonders if she is one of them. "I heard from Hermione, congratulations on getting the Unspeakables to give up their idea of studying your Mysteries – knew you'd win it. What are you doing out and about; we thought you'd get out of here, disappear in order to see the world?" Her eyes flick to the sparklings, amused.

Optimus Prime listens keenly, and knows he is not the only one.

"Do you find NEST suitable?" Harry doesn't answer her, not in the way she's wanting.

"It's alright, keeps me out of trouble – because we're too busy keeping things from troubling _them_." Them could mean "muggles" or could mean whatever government force Tonks works for. Optimus Prime can hack a database in a blink of an eye, and he knows that the government she works with is not one which keeps computer records.

"I think I'll call it home." Optimus Prime scans the sparklings, Blackbike shudders and shifts his shape into someone all too human looking. A man with black hair and stormy grey eyes, who's hands fold into his robes as he strides to keep pace with Harry and Tonks. Harry stands between them, and Tonks does not quite dare look to him.

Tonks blinks quickly, pale and sad looking – the face that Blackbike wares is familiar to her. He, in fact, shares her features, as if they are family. Ford Anglia shuts her doors, firmly and Optimus Prime reads that she is pleased rather then disappointed. Knight Bus settles beside her, watching and waiting as if he's good at it, a sentinel: but his speed as Optimus Prime well knows is formidable.

"You're sure?" Blackbike asks, eyeing his surroundings and clearly unimpressed.

"I'm sure, Black." At that Hogwarts Express lets out a loud blast, as if a cheer for homecoming at NEST. The black train transforms then, shifting and shaping, until it's almost unrecognizable, an old castle with towers and spires and a look both magical and forbidding.

"Yeah, that's _real_ subtle." Black says with a roll of his eyes: but Tonks and Harry look fondly to it, as if its home – and perhaps it is.

0o0o0

(_Yes, Hogwarts Express = Hogwarts. Perhaps not _the_ Hogwarts, or perhaps yes - but what else would Hogwarts Express be? I couldn't help myself, and yes Blackbike just took the shape of Sirius Black_.)


	35. There Will Be Sparklings, xTransformers

There Will Be Sparklings

Hinjintetsusou: .Hp/Transformers: a scene were decepticons and autobots, for the first time are all together with Harry and his sparklings, and both sides bristling and being overprotective and Harry and his sparklings being a bit bemused and defensive but also assertive (_Ch. 26: Savior By Nature, HP&Transformers_)

0o0o0

William Lennox was trying his _best_ to make NEST work. Had been ever since the government turned to the left of "exploit Cube and one frozen Megatron for technology" to right up there with "help good Transformers (ones that don't want to kill us) against bad Transformers (ones that do want to kill us)". It would have gone much smoother if he had help – namely, the kid, Sam Witwicky – the Autobots loved him, and he loved the Autobots so far as Lennox could call it. Sam though, refused outright to have anything to do with "the government conspiracy" – claiming then that he just wanted to _go to college_, time to grow up and live a life he should have had if none of this had happened.

Thing was, it had _happened_, and there was no going back. For any of them that now knew – and the rest of the world's population that did not.

So when Sam went overseas, in a exchange program - it wasn't so much NEST asking permission to go overseas it was – _haul ass_ because the Transformers are going to be where Sam is going to be_, right now_. Government secrecy? _What secrecy_? They might be called Transformers, but that was for not letting other life-forms see them in plain sight – like any predator or hunter, not for hiding _from_ them as prey.

So Lennox was in London, and so far Sam didn't know – mostly because Optimus Prime was respecting Sam's wish not to get involved. It didn't mean that Sam didn't have Transformers watching and reporting his every move. There was no such thing as the kid having any privacy, however much it looked like he wasn't involved – and for someone who had never been on the NEST base - his life was the life-blood of Autobot gossip.

("_Witwicky went out – with who? Oh, that lady-friend he met last Wednesday, guess he really is a ladies-man_!")

With whole new levels of disturbing, most of the NEST's human-half got a kick out of it. It wasn't that Sam was a blogger, it was that the Transformers, interfacing with the web – with security cameras, with every bit of modern technology known to man: knew everything – when they cared to show it, and they didn't, save where Sam was concerned – then they bragged like he was one of them. It got Lennox thinking, _why_? What made Sam significant? The Cube – perhaps – it should have made the Autobots hate him, for it was destroyed by Sam's actions. It remained a mystery, as there was no other human to compare Sam with.

Then, suddenly, there was.

Savior came out of no-where (literally, no where, as in a apparent no man's land of information, there wasn't a whisper of his name outside certain circles – and he wasn't one to call _conspiracy_ when he was involved in a cover-up, _but it so was_, because there was no other possibility) and the United Kingdom and United Nations had just shrugged and gone with letting a boy who didn't yet know how to shave into the biggest secret this side of the equator (not the Earth/world/planet, because damn-it this was big enough, he wasn't saying this solar system – because he didn't want to know – nor this galaxy because who knew – and he wasn't saying universe because he wasn't going into space, thank you very much).

Savior was just what the Autobots had called him, at first, because Tonks (one of the "Auror"-class agents of SIS: M16 so the paperwork claimed, and Lennox didn't have the clout to get it double-checked with any government – let along doubt and be doubted by his own) had welcomed him into the base with open arms. He'd gotten the story from Epps, the boy 'Harry Potter' was a war-hero – where, when, and why were all unanswered questions.

Tonks had hovered over the boy for _weeks_, and when she'd gone back to her "Ministry": there had been Black to deal with, who'd walked onto the base with the boy (though Epps claimed he had never set eyes on him that day). He _never_ left that boy alone, certainly not on the rare occasions where he left the Transformer-that-was-a-castle called Hogwarts: not in the bathroom, or while eating any meal in the mess hall, or in his bed – Black had point-blank said it one early morning in the mess while the boy ate: "Can't we go back to bed?" The boy Savior had only shaken his head, an amused smile on his lips while Black folded his arms across his chest and pouted. (Epps had later blanched and told him point blank that if a grown man was sleeping with that under-aged boy, and he found out that Lennox was just _letting it happen,_ it was going to end very badly).

Black wasn't only 'badly behaved', with his intent grey eyes peering at you, it almost felt like he was looking _into_ you, measuring and weighing you and finding you wanting – only the boy he looked at with a measure of fondness. Only that boy he listened to. When he opened his mouth and that uppity oh-so-noble English accent came out, he looked at you like you were scum for daring to interrupt his day, and it was not the military way of yelling and being yelled at, it was quiet and ruthless. Black would kill you, not because you pissed him off, but because you were there and he didn't like you or what you were doing. The only thing stopping him from doing just that was the boy.

Black outright - and frankly - reminded Lennox of the Decepticons. There was no ignoring him, and the boy didn't talk to anyone else human – only the Autobots and Black. He seemed to regard the human-half of NEST as something to be dealt with on a later list of things to-do. It didn't help that he slept in that castle.

So, frankly did the Transformers that had came with the boy (Black had made that clear on the one time questioned with why they didn't leave once the Transformers had arrived safely: "Your thinking is that you could keep any Transformer here who didn't want to be? The boy is why we came, that boy is why we stay put.") Lennox, remembering with a certain shudder, the crossing of an ocean to trail friendly Transformers from one end of the globe to the other, didn't ask again.

Then came the day that Lennox understood why the boy was called _Savior_ by Transformers. He'd never forget it.

"You will take care of him?" Optimus Prime had asked, and Lennox had only nodded, with a glance to the boy and Black, who didn't yet know about NEST finding Barricade in hiding. Optimus Prime wasn't asking for Sam, who was under Bumblebee's care. With Ratchet and Ironhide he had rolled out with NEST's agents.

"Where are they going?" Lennox hadn't known who'd spoken, at first: then he looked and found green eyes peering at him.

"To take care of some Decepticons." His spine had stiffened up as if he'd been punched. Quickly, he looked to Black, and then back.

"Thank you." _For the truth_? Lennox only shakes his head, confused.

Then Black became a black motorcycle, its engine thundering. It was like a call to arms: the Transformer castle – Hogwarts – it shifted and moved as no solid thing should. It was a train.

"How?" He'd stuttered, but it was a standard question to get out when faced by impossible things. Harry had known all along, is obvious, as he gets onto the transformed Black, he answers.

"Hogwarts is too to have a swift to have a big bi-pedal form, and there is nothing with four legs big enough to match – so the train is the transformed state, the castle is a true shape." Transformers that were buildings, ships, what was next –… a city? (It's when Lennox meets "Autobot City" also known as Metroplex – his reaction is something like a whimper. He'll never look at a city - never mind a castle shaped building - the same way.)

Ford Angelia and Knight Bus had _come out_ of Hogwarts, a distant part of Lennox notices.

They roll away, and Lennox – because he promised – can do nothing else but follow. As he knows where they are going, and they are using whatever scanners they have to find out where (he hadn't told, after all), Lennox gets there first, having in other words a front-row seat to the show.

Enter all four on the scene - Ford Angelia, Knight Bus, Hogwarts, and Black (as a bike) – going into the battle fearlessly: and the battle comes to a halt: Barricade makes a sound like wailing, Lennox later gets it translated as: "_Sparklings, you're using our sparklings as shields_!"

"Do not dare move." Ironhide's cannons are whirling in Barricade's face. Barricade, of course, wasn't alone – there was Starscream, screeching again, not in anything English: "_Get away sparklings, you are in danger here_."

Optimus Prime had been standing aside, directing the fight from a statistic location as any good commander would. It wasn't that he would not fight or did not fight: but Ironhide had told Lennox that Optimus Prime was more important to them then as merely a warrior or leader – he'd get in the way with smaller matters – like fights, because there was something in Autobots that wanted to protect him. Lennox hadn't asked what in turn Decepticons might feel toward Optimus Prime. He'd thought it was a easy answer: hatred.

It wasn't nearly so simple or human.

Starscream started running for the four sparklings, and Ratchet growled as he got in the way. Between the two standing giants were Harry and his "sparklings" standing still, unharmed.

"Stand aside." Was the order Ratchet hissed at Starscream – who was shuddering in disgust.

"Humans have twisted you beyond measure – to use sparklings as shields! To expose _them_ to battle – you have lost everything Cybertron born in you!" Ironhide pointed one cannon in the still Barricade's face, and with a sneer twisted features – the other arm reached fruitlessly toward Starscream and Ratchet.

"We did not bring them here – they came freely!" Ratchet protested, but Starscream scoffed.

"Sure." He said, when they all knew he meant _liar_.

"You _will_ stop. You _will not_ fire upon one another." Lennox at first didn't know who Harry was talking to, but he realized when five sets of optics landed on the boy – he was talking to all of them – and they knew it. He stepped forward, as if making the force of his words and personality felt.

"What's this, a trick?" Barricade asks, as Ratchet hadn't said he couldn't talk. His red optics smolder and burn – he's hateful, and full of righteous rage.

"Savior." Optimus Prime, the big guy, sounds upset – as if he hadn't wanted him to see this side of them.

"I am half of what you lost on Cybertron." White and blue sparks dance between Harry's fingers, like energy - and if the look of them is anything to go by – what they _feel_ like on highly attuned scanners and sensitive sensors – Lennox can't guess. Something like peace comes to the features of the Autobots – but something like lust comes upon the Decepticons.

"Energon…" Starscream's metallic fingers twitch and quiver, as if he wants to be closer, even by only a claw inch. Ratchet stands steady, in his way and unmovable. It's the only thing that holds the Decepticon away.

"Don't even think about it." He snarls into Strarscream's face.

"Half right, he says –" Harry nods to Optimus Prime who bows his head with guilt or acknowledgement, "that I'm half the Energon Cube, the half that gives life to you – that's how the sparklings are here at all. They are mine." There are engine-like rumbles of agreement, horn-sounds, and the long bellow of steam-like air. Black is standing – human shaped – beside Harry.

"He is _ours_." Black, a sparkling says – looking boldly up at Starscream.

Starscream, slowly, nods.

"Then it is our place to defend him." Lennox's feelings that Black is a sparkling version of a Decepticon, a baby – seems in agreement with Starscream's reaction. He listens.

"You haven't _earned_ that right." Ratchet states, and again – Starscream bows his head in agreement.

"The war…" Barricade begins red eyes wide and pleading. It is clear to him how helpless he is – how helpless the Decepticons are – with the Mother turned against them, they will be out-cast and not even the Father would protest the loss.

"Ends today: your duty now – and the duty of all Decepticons whom wish to settle upon Earth – is to track down your fellows, Autobots and Decepticons alike - and inform them of that fact. I will see no more death." Harry – Savior – very obviously represents to them, _life_.

Starscream lowers himself to the ground, to better see the boy. His back is prone to any attack, but Ironhide upon having heard Harry say the war is ended had simply shut off his cannons, he glared – not liking Starscream so close, but made no move to attack. Instead he kept his eye upon the human agents of NEST. Very clearly, the Autobots had put themselves between the Decepticons and their human partners– just as the Decepticons had nearly done, trying to put themselves between both Autobots and their human allies.

"You are the Savior, the Mother of Living Energon. What of your other half? What of our ancient knowledge and the warriors – the survival of the fittest." Starscream keeps his head low, so as to seem respectful. It occurs to Lennox then that the Autobots and the Decepticons are not two different races, but two dominates of the many types and classes of the same kind of beings.

"We're working on it. Savior needed to settle, to nest; he has tasted of war and death, and would not let us aid him in it." Ford Angelia chimes in, like an older sister who's tattling to a grown-up.

Starscream hisses, eyes flicking to the humans scattered among the rubble of the battlefield.

"They dared taint the Savior with blood?" Metallic claws dig into the earth, as if Starscream must keep contract with it or fling himself upon the humans to see their blood in turn soak into the earth.

"Not _these_. Those like Savior, they are magical, and old – and did not understand us, but helped them grow - now they are Savior's powerful allies." Knight Bus protested, rumbling. He is protective of those allies.

"What of the union – what of the Father?" Starscream glances around, as if he might catch glimpse of the other half personification of the Cube.

"We will meet, in time." It is a time that Harry does not sound like he looks forward to. Starscream nods again – quickly – and stands, with a glance to Barricade, they go. To beings that live millions of years, the time of _when_ is not in question. Only that as it once was, it will be again: all that is whole and in union in their universe will begin to be so again.

0o0o0

(_I mention Metroplex because I believe it's a case where his "normal" shape is a structure – which he makes look like Autobot City or a part of the city – and his transformed state is to look like a giant Autobot: Hogwarts is in a natural shape as a castle-structure, and a transformed one as a train. Hogwarts is still something of a sparkling compared to the super-sized structure Transformers_.

_And may I say, wow – usually getting three or five lovely reviews, and then suddenly getting almost ten was a nice treat_: _I love talking/responding too!)_


	36. Mother By Any Other Name, xTransformers

Mother By Any Other Name

e . elusive : maybe in the future when everything's a bit settled and they're used to Harry and his power there would be new sparklings, in addition to the four, and Harry actually being called 'mother' (or some derivative of it), and him being resigned/amused/fondly exasperated (_Ch. 26: Savior By Nature, HP&Transformers_)

(_Warning, warning!: Baby sparkling cuteness lurks ahead_!)

0o0o0

"What's it going to be?" Sam asks Harry, he sits and looks at the little egg, hugging one leg, the other wrapped protectively near the glimmering wiring of a shell. With the spark within it gleams and glistens, the pulse of a heartbeat. In an instant he had once seen the Energon Cube create life that had no purpose but hate: this little one, this sparkling, will be different. It's the first real _life_ he's seen Harry make as the Mother of Living Energon, the first of a breed of Transformer born on Earth.

Not the first – one of the first five, there is Knight Bus, and Ford Anglia, and Hogwarts Express – and Black. Sam wasn't there to see them brought about, and he doesn't know how Harry did it – doesn't ask, because it's sort of awkward, and while he does want to know – he doesn't want to know what cause Harry had to use so much Living Energon all at once, to give sparks to magical machinery, as if he were the Cube dying and reaching out a final time to quicken life.

Life, Sam thinks, brought Harry back – the life of his sparklings.

Sam shudders to think of Harry dying, but neither of them can die now – they are the Mother, the Father, and the Prime - Optimus Prime – is their voice: the Autobots the protectors, the Decepticons the defenders. As it should be, as it once was and will always be.

"Do you mean – is it going to be a Decepticon or an Autobot?" Sam looks up, because that isn't Harry speaking; it's Black – glaring down at him. Black is Harry's shadow, just as Bumblebee is his – and Sam's never asked if they were lovers like he and Bee – if they still might be. Black is hard to get along with – damn near impossible if you've got bones and blood unless it's Harry.

Sam flushes in the face of those glittering grey and red eyes, like looking into a storm and knowing there is no avoiding it.

"No, I meant – damn-it, I meant a boy or a girl." Sam knows his face is red, because he _hadn't_ thought of in terms of Decepticon or Autobot as he was being accused of. Black blinks at him, startled, he's accused Sam of hating Decepticons more then once – and once would have been right – only now and then now reminded, smugly that the Mother _favors_ Black and thus the Decepticons.

"A girl..." Harry answers, in a distracted murmur, his hand glowing blue and white going to the metallic egg, holding it, cradling it. He gives it a spark, and feeds it Energon.

"Like Arcee? Badass!" Sam cheers up, grinning, he can't help but be happy with Harry, and he feeling of home and the sparkling - it's his family. For all that he's called Father he's never felt like one before – especially not to Optimus Prime or the others – but this, it's different – Harry had always been the Savior, the Mother – because he'd come to NEST that way, and met Sam that way.

Harry's eyes flick to him, and there is a smile Sam had won. It's a sight to see, and it is worth enduring Black's snarky ways.

"It's time." Harry's fingers tap against the shell, as if waiting for a response. Then there is one, _tap-tap-tap-tap_, right back in perfect mimic. Black gives him a wide-eyed and panicked look, and Sam doesn't have to ask to know Black is asking to flee gracefully. Black is a sparkling still, and this isn't something any Decepticon or Autobot likes to see: because they don't want to be imprinted on, there is only one Transformer that other Transformers should imprint on – and that's Optimus Prime, who carries the Father's gift of theCreation Matrix of Leadership. Sam waves, and Black flings himself out of the room – Hogwart's closing it behind him.

"Come on out little guy." Sam croons, not sure if he should touch or not.

Harry gives him a _look_, and Sam remembers – girl Transformer.

"Gal." He grins back at that look; Harry sighs and turns his attention to the egg. Sam can't help it then, he touches it, it's warm to the touch, and the sleek feeling of the metal is comforting. This is _real_, and it is happening, but he's not alone with it - her – he'd really be panicking if Harry _wasn't_ here, he knows.

Harry is the Mother, he should see his daughter born: Sam knows he isn't' a bad "Dad" he hasn't left this little egg alone since the Decepticons had made peace with the Autobots officially, after their union – Starscream led the Decepticons, and Starscream answered to Harry as all Decepticons did: only the Autobots followed the Father, followed him – and by doing so followed Harry. It wasn't going to be a problem, because Sam was going to make this work – not only for the Decepticon and Autobot peace, or for the good of the world and his birth country – no, it was because he really liked Harry, liked feeling whole. Harry was a part of his soul, maybe because of the Cube: more likely to him, the Cube had found what was already there between them – what might be, and possibility – and brought it out, so they would find each other – like that, they were lucky.

The metal egg becomes something he can see through, as the little sparkling stretches and strains against the threads that nurtured it. Harry is silent, but smiles – that little body is straining toward him.

"That's it, come on – you can do it." Sam urges, not feeling silly at all. After all: it works.

With a little cry of triumph, the sparkling stumbles out of it's metallic egg, a egg formed by Energon given off while Sam was around Harry – of that much Sam is sure, he helped – the sparkling is "his". It's tiny but lunges for Harry, it makes Sam think this isn't going to end well – the sparkling may be just a little gal, but it's still metal and solid – she lands on Harry's lap, air franticly venting and metallic limbs trembling with strain.

"Ma!" A whine, and Harry glances to Sam who is grinning – and can't help it, certainly can't stop.

"Mama?" She whimpers, shuddering and looking up at the both of them with big bight blue optics.

Sam tries not to snicker: she looks to him for direction, for help – those blue optic asking why won't Mother answer me? Where is he?

"Savior." Sam gives a pointed hint, with a look to Harry – annoyed green eyes roll, but fondly Harry – the Mother - offers his fingers to his sparkling, the living light of white and blue dancing across the room. It's the only light in here, peaceful and resigned, Harry lets the sparkling feed from his fingers.

The suckling feeling of Energon – magic – going and gone - stops, suddenly – and the sparkling gal burps, blinking wide optics at the falling sparks of Living Engergon.

"Enough?" Harry asks her softly, soothingly. She's curled between them, and Sam finally dares touch her, a warm and living metal hide.

"Yes, Mother." Bright optics close, so Harry's exasperated sigh is seen only by Sam: whose smile is lovingly warm.

"She'll learn." Sam promises, with a wink. Harry somehow doubts that, with the mischievous glimmer in those eyes that match the sparklings: but he can't help but smile back.

0o0o0

(_Quickly, readers please review so I know the cuteness did not kill you_! _If you feel the urge to prompt me something, feel free – as it's been established: Abby Ebon does not do mind reading_.)


	37. Soul of the Great Grail, HP&Fate Zero

Soul of the Great Grail

CkyKing: Harry Potter/Fate Zero or Harry Potter/Fate Stay Night

Harry is the vessel (or physical manifestation) of the Great Grail (not the Lesser Grail)  
Pairing : Lancer(Diarmuid)/Harry (Fate Zero or Fate Stay Night)  
Idea for Backstory :  
The Potters are a branch that separated itself from the Einzbern Family, taking the name "Potter" to mock the homonculi created by the main family.  
But they stole the creation process of the Greater Grail before leaving.  
Then, they used it to create their vessel for the Great Grail as opposed to the creation of the vessel for the Lesser Grail by using Homonculi of the Einzbern.  
Indeed, the first born (male or female) are always its vessel even though the link might stay inactive.

(_This was another prompt where I'm introduced into a new fandom: first the Beowulf movie and now this anime. Unfortunately, I was only able to find and watch a few episodes of Fate Zero, enough to understand the prompt and play a little with the idea. The results, I think – are interesting_….)

0o0o0

_To my son, Harry James Potter._

_I fear for your life, in what I have learned recently. If you read this, and I have not told this to you, I had reason to worry for my own life – an instinct that I did not heed. I am a witch, but not being born into this society as those of the old pure blood families are – I have found my way in it, and settled into it. Now I learn things too late that I would have turned away had I the chance and knowledge I do now. _

_I would flee with you, but believe me, it would not help you – it would perhaps hurt you worse to grow up as I did, knowing nothing of magic and magi. _

_The families you must be wary of – they do not call themselves wizards and witches, but mages or magi for magicians – the "pure blood" lines. Your father's father was not born named Potter, but Einzbern: the Potter name they took to mock that branch for forbidden and powerful dark magic – the magic art of making people, a process called homunculi. To hide in plain sight the most powerful magic known to the magi – that of granting a wish – for good or evil. _

_The Einzbern did this to produce a vessel for the Great Grail. Yet never did they succeed in putting the Great Grail into a homunculi's body: the Great Grail is gone from the reach of the Einzbern. Your great-grandfather had taken it, and the name Potter, to hide the Great Grail in the bloodline of Potter heirs. _

_The system as I understands it, chooses seven magi who summon seven legendary spirits, be they villains or heroes, it depends upon the magi: these "Servants" are called– Saber, Lancer, Archer, Rider, Castor, Assassin, and Berserker: the skills of the heroes of the past are often found in these 'ranks'. _

_I do not know how their "Masters" are chosen by the Grail, perhaps not even the magi themselves know. The Grail knows. _

_Oh, my Harry – I hope I am wrong, that I worry for nothing – but I believe there is a secret your father won't tell me, or that he doesn't know himself. I do not think he does, but I do – in his sleep he speaks with these "Servants" and sometimes if I lay quietly beside him, I hear them call him "Great Grail". _

_It runs in your blood, this Great Grail. I can do nothing but warn you of it, and wish you healthy from harm with all my love. _

_Lily Evans- Potter _

Harry – eleven years old, and alone - said nothing in the empty Potter vault, his heart pounding in his ears, the paper in his hand – aged and yellowed – crinkling. His mother's handwriting, fluid and fleeting – full of fear and the fragility of feelings going unheeded: she'd written it, maybe in her last days – perhaps not, but it was his one warning, from beyond the grave – and he would heed it.

He knows less then his own mother about being a 'Great Grail' – but surely, there was a way to find out. A way to be sure: he has only to find a way. Harry closes his eyes, and thinks of his first year at Hogwarts, school of witchcraft and wizardry.

"It's too late, you know." Harry looked to see _him_, one of the shadows that were always there in the corner of his eye, watching him. He'd thought them only blurs in his glasses. They had been there as Harry woke in the Hogwart's infirmary – and it had been clear to him, no one else saw the shadows – not even the ghosts. It had made him suspicious enough to go through what remained of his parents things safely locked in the _Gringotts_Wizarding Bank vaults: he'd gotten here by bus and walking, from his Aunt's house: remembering the way when he'd gone with Hagrid. Or at least he'd thought he was safe here, in a locked vault only he possessed the key to – he'd asked it from Hagrid and received it to his own surprise with Dumbledore's approval. He had been wrong, of course he was wrong. It wasn't safe here.

"The Masters have been summoning Servants. The War begins anew." There is regret in him, this shadow-shape. He keeps his head low; his eyes adverted, as if he dares not look Harry in the face.

"Why?" Harry asks, and there is something like pleading in his voice. He does not want a War to start, does not want to be its source and focus because of the Great Grail lurking within him. It's not fair, it's in him, in his blood because he's a wizard – no, magi – and a Potter. The last Potter, the first born.

"It is the cycle, every sixty years..your father was preparing, he knew what was coming..." The shadow, it has a shape, and it's real – but it's not living. It's a spirit Harry realizes – one of _them_: a Servant.

"Who are you?" The spirit looks up, meets his eyes – and smiles.

"Diarmuid Ua Duibhne – though my Master calls me simply Lancer." That's this Servant's class – and not a name, and Harry doesn't bother to say something so simple – because, clearly – the Servant knows that.

"Why come here to tell me this?" Harry holds himself, arms wrapped around his chest -not afraid to admit he's scared.

"You are a boy – and all the Servants will come to you, to swear to your protection. In secrecy from the Masters this is done, as the Potter bloodline demanded in order for the Holy Grail War to happen at all. To you I owe this gift, my greatest desire is half fulfilled, to serve a lord faithfully - and I owe you this thanks – my loyalty and honor I lay in a this vow – to protect you and serve you, Great Grail." Diarmuid kneels, head bowed low. Harry's face is flushed. He doesn't know what to do – thank him? Send him away. No – other Servants are coming, and he doesn't want to be alone when they get here.

They are coming, and no physical force – be it vault or not – will stop them. Or warn Harry of their coming.

"Will you stay?" Harry begs, quickly – because Diarmuid seems sincere. The Lancer looks up, frowning – but nods. It is not a long wait to see the next Servant – she steps from the shadows, head held high. In a dress of armor, like a knight striding forward to go to battle. She shines brighter then any treasures of the Potter vault.

"Great Grail…." Her eyes are on Lancer – but when Diarmuid's eyes widen and he shakes his head – she looks swiftly to Harry.

"A boy…" She murmurs, with shocked wide eyes – taking in the sight of him, and Harry feels his cheeks burning, imagining what she sees – an eleven year old boy she must swear to protect. Harry has to look at her, eventually, and does. Her eyes are kind and understanding, and it surprises him to see it. They are each not what the other expected.

"I am King Arturia Pendragon, Great Grail. I served thy Lady of the Lake with Excalibur and now as then I make the vow to raise my sword only for thy good and just world, and for thy world I will make War for my own and my Master's wish." King Arthur (a girl, but still _King Arthur_!) is kneeling on the floor of the Potter vault – and offers Excalibur, a gleaming sword with Fairy letters upon it, to Harry with bowed head and a fall of golden hair. It's a surreal feeling, and Harry doesn't know what to do – he looks to Diarmuid, who has drawn nearer to Harry, perhaps feeling his confusion.

"Keep it, and wield it as you will." Diarmuid speaks, when it is clear Harry will not. Arturia looks upon Diarmuid with narrowed eyes, but Harry – still speechless – nods with him in agreement.

"As the Great Grail wills…" Arturia muses softly, and with a final bow for Harry – fades.

"She is the Saber class, I would not doubt it." Diarmuid smiles into the shadows, something eager in his eyes.

"That's King Arthur…" Harry is awed, and intimidated, and sort of dismayed – he hadn't thought he would know of any of the heroic and legendary spirits. He doesn't doubt now that he will know of some of them, (for some may be better or worse then their reputation) and that in this War – he will see them die, again, and fade.

"Yes." Diarmuid ruffles Harry's hair, as if he is a brother, and he laughs. Harry smiles, a little, getting over his uneasy awe of King Arthur – but he has only to breath to feel another spirits presence pressing down upon him. Diarmuid's laughter changes, becomes ringing – challenging. He's felt the other spirit and can not help but call him out.

"Silence – for I am Gilgamesh, King of Kings." Everything about this spirit is golden, his hair, his armor, and his flashing eyes. It's the red cloak that marks him as royalty. Diarmuid's spine straightens, stiff and uneasy. Gilgamesh does not make the mistake of King Arthur; his golden eyes are settled upon Harry's green ones. He squats down, looking him over. He does not so much as glance to Diarmuid – and this is because, Harry is sure – Gilgamesh does not see him as any kind of threat or challenge to his person.

"There is much of my once companion Enkidu in you. I did not think to see that so in a boy - the Great Grail's embodiment on this earth. I will not serve you or any, but I will be your sworn friend. Death will not take you from my side while I War for a world of worthy beings to serve us. Will you take my friendship?" Gilgamesh offers his hand, and Harry hesitates for a moment – wondering at this King – but he certainly does not want to be his enemy. He takes the offered hand, and is startled when Gilgamesh kisses both sides of it. He doesn't have the chance to pull away in surprise, for Gilgamesh is gone – a spirit gone back into the shadows from which he came.

Diarmuid looks thoughtfully down at the hand Gilgamesh had taken and kissed. He is wary of that King's promise – and when Harry looks up, curious and with questions in his eyes.

"He is an Archer. This War will be one worthy of remembering, to the living and those of spirit like me." Diarmuid Ua Duibhne does not protest when Harry puts the hand that had been held and kissed by a King, into his own. He tucks Harry protectively against his side, for the next legendary spirits will not be nearly so kindly nor – he thinks - noble. All are heroes, but not all heroes have a personality that deserves the reverence history gives them.

The thunderous sound of a drawn chariot by bulls whose striking hooves echo in the vault eerily. This is a spirit of a hero who hides nothing of himself. He is red haired and wild looking, the hero who descends from his ancient divine chariot.

"And you are?" Diarmuid Ua Duibhne asks with raised brows, aware that Harry is tucked against him, heart beating as frantic and frightened as any boy ought to be.

"Iskandar, Alexander the Great, Al-Sikandar, The Lord of War, the Maharaorajah. The King of Conquerors." He waves a hand, as if these titles and names are nothing, and perhaps to him they are that. This is a man who knows what he desires, and he would die gladly to accomplish them.

"As long as you are, I will be – so I will protect you, Great Grail – but I want no wishes from you, for I will achieve my wishes by my own will or not at all - this world was once nearly mine, and I will conquer it – I will make it mine, and see what it fully offers – once and for all." He turns his back then, and nods to Harry – and takes his chariot and divine bulls back from where he came.

"The Rider class, swift – and I would teach him respect if you but asked it." Harry only shakes his head, he'd thought he'd learned something of Alexander the Great in history class, but this – this wasn't history, it was real. It was happening because of him, his blood.

"Likes of that one, does not know respect or quitting even upon being struck." At home in the shadows, this one is there – beside them, before either notice. It isn't until he speaks that they know.

"Hassan-i-Sabah, Great Grail – I mean not to harm you, if you can put The Hundred-Faced Hassan – back together again." Hassan-i-Sabah looks to the shadows surrounding them, the many bodies – and skills – and Harry realizes that these are multiple personalities, fragments – of one man: Hassan-i-Sabah.

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne takes a shaky breath, his eyes flashing. He does not know what he could do against this one – without a Master's mana – but if Harry is being threatened by the likes of a mere Assassin, Diarmuid will gladly see him dead.

"If it is your wish – and the wish of your Master – what can I do to stop you?" Harry only then takes a breath, wondering if it will be his last, and it is then that Hassan-i-Sabah snaps his fingers and all his many "faces" fall away into smoke and shadow, he bows.

"So be it, Great Grail." With his final words, he fades from sight. There is no knowing if he is truly gone or not. They both look to the shadows, and that is how Diarmuid spots the sword which gleams like light upon a lake's water. Sensing himself seen, a Black Knight steps forward.

"Berserker…" Diarmuid Ua Duibhne hisses, keeping himself between Harry and the Black Knight that has shown himself. He takes the helmet from his head, and his hair is a fall of darkness, his face pale and earnest.

"We are not so different, Lancer – for a women's love, we betrayed our most worthy lords. Behold, from the Great Grail's sight I do not hide – I am Lancelot of the Lake. With the light of Arondight, I defend thou Great Grail –even in darkness as my sanity deserts will remind me of this vow." Lancelot of the Lake does not bow, but he offers Arondight in the same way King Arthur had offered Excalibur – both are swords with Fairy marks and making.

Harry does not dare take it, or move to reject the vow – this Lancelot takes as acceptance. He turns his back to Harry and Diarmuid, to leave, but pauses. There is a sound like clapping.

"Oh so very noble, those lips, but that mind – it's twisted so with darkness, with pride and madness. I can taste your spirit's essence Lancelot of the Lake – and it is not so different from mine, either." This is a man who hunches in on himself, hiding it, appearing harmless. His grin is twisted and wicked.

"What do you want?" Harry's voice shakes, but he doesn't like this man – he's a wizard, a magi – just like Harry. The difference is he is older, and more powerful – and evil.

"From the Great Grail? Nothing: I have everything with a Master who understands me. For this, I thank you – and as thanks, I will kill you Great Grail, your bloodline has given hope to magi, a burning hope like flame for a wish – with your death that hope will be extinguished, ended with the Potter line. I know too of your enemy, Harry Potter – he I will help to kill you, but his hopes will be burning bright at your death – and it is then, know and hope, that I will kill him in your name." This is no hero, but he is legendary – in al the wrong ways. Like Voldemort his name lived on beyond his grave. That is how he manages to stand here, smiling and confident.

"Name yourself." Lancelot of the Lake demands, Arondight held aloft, standing between this powerful mad-man and the Great Grail.

"You dare? Corrupt Caster filth!" Diarmuid hisses at the Castor class Servant, reaching for his spear Gae Buidhe for the first time. No matter that this Castor is magi, Gae Buidhe would inflict wounds that would be unhealed, bleeding and weakening him until the spirit is defeated.

"I am but simple Gille de Rais, oh put your weapons away Berserker – you as well Lancer, I will not kill the Great Grail now – I'll let you live and hope another day will not end in your death – after all, a Servant can not serve their Master and the Great Grail at the same time, can they? And, oh – the trap of the Potter's was fine and made of their own vow – the Masters must not know the Great Grail…or not of us Servants would be summoned successfully." Mockingly, he bows, and the shadows move and reach for him, as if devouring him. Harry knows he did it himself, to make Harry worry. It had worked.

Lancelot looks to Harry, and then to the shadows that may very well represent his madness. They taint him, and the light of Arondight seems grim and grey.

"I will find his Master, Great Grail – you need not fear. I will kill them both." Harry is not comforted by that declaration – neither does he really believe it, but is glad to see Lancelot go.

"The sooner this War starts, the sooner it ends." Diarmuid does not say it will begin again – but Harry knows that without being told.

"You…you've got to go." Harry, in his own way, agrees. He doesn't like it, but he does know and realize it.

"You will be safe –from him - only when this War is ended." Diarmuid puts his forehead to Harry's cradling his hand in his hands, eyes pleading for an understanding.

"And I great a Master's wish..." Harry's lips curl downward, unhappily, but Diarmuid nods in agreement.

"What of my own wishes?" Harry asks, softly. Diarmuid is a Servant, tied to the Great Grail, summoned forth from it, brought to life by it. He knows Harry's wish, as all Servants do and feel – doing their best to answer the Great Grail's wish by the will of their Master magi. It is only that the Great Grail has so much within him – good and evil, and the power of potential, and the chosen Masters represent all the wishes within him – their Servants serve the Great Grail's will.

Harry has seen the Servants and knows now what is within his own soul; the soul of the Great Grail is corrupted by another – or else Gille de Rais would never have been summoned out of darkness and shadows of spirits. Diarmuid thinks – knows – it is by the one whom Gille de Rais spoke of, the enemy – and somehow, the Servants loyal to the Great Grail must fight two Wars at once.

"Wish to be whole and happy and I will see this granted to you." Diarmuid kisses the boy's forehead, knowing that if the Great Grail were older, or a women, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne would love him and be loved. It is a bitter sweet thing, to know a true lord worthy of love and loyalty, but to serve a Master to whom these things are nothing.

0o0o0

4th Holy Grail War:

(**Class **: Servant – _Master_)

**Saber:** Arturia Pendragon** -** _Emiya Kiritsugu (husband of _Irisviel von Einzbern,_ homunculus and physical embodiment of the_ Lesser Grail_ of the Einzbern family.)  
_

**Lancer: **Diarmuid Ua Duibhne - _Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi_

**Archer**: Gilgamesh -_Tohsaka Tokiomi/Kotomine Kirei_

**Caster**: Gille de Rais "Bluebeard" - _Uryuu Ryuunosuke_

**Rider**: Alexander the Great - _Waver Velvet_

**Berserker**: Lancelot of the Lake - _Matou Kariya_

**Assassin**: The Hundred-Faced Hassan - _Kotomine Kirei_


	38. Prince's Purpose, HPxBeowulf

Prince's Purpose

Salios : HP/Beowulf (Verse? WTHK: who the Hel knows!…) x-over. Harry taken in by the Viking (Hrothgar).

0o0o0

Hrothgar's first born was a boy with one gold eye and one green: a wizard-born lad, the king's bastard gotten by a witch's bed– but for all that the prince of the people, beloved by them. He was named Harry, but that was not all known of him. He would never take a wife; never gain either the warrior's crown or the king's throne from his father's word upon this day. The day Hrothgar had vowed this to Wealhtheow as he took her for his wife.

Between father and son, Wealhtheow had met the son first, who had acted as her escort from her father's court to Hrothgar's own. She had been startled that the son was as old as she, black haired with his wild miss-matched eyes. Wealhtheow had thought, watching him arrive in a caravan, that he would be her husband and so she had not protested her father's choice when she had had the chance. Now it was but too late.

"Lady, are you well?" Wealhtheow turned to look to the man addressing her: if there was any man Harry trusted more then Hrothgar – it was his "brother", Unferth. If they were brothers there was no resemblance, for Harry was fine looking while Unferth made her uneasy, and further he had an ill history not meant for fine born men and women – his brother's had lain with knowledge with their mother, and he has slain the both of them.

"You're…brother – what is his history?" Unferth bows his head with a smile, and Wealhtheow does not like the sight of it.

"We are not brothers by linage, Lady – as you may guess with your own eyes - but by our masteries of magic – he was born to it, and I? I was honored when he taught to me his gifts." Unferth draws a sword from his side, showing the naked blade to her. It is silver with a ruby upon its hilt.

"This is his, by name Gryffindor - and his witch mother gave it up to Hrothgar – a king's gift for her son to be taken in by him. How he must have slighted and scorned her – why she bothered to leave Harry there I do not know – but I am glad for knowing him. Hrothgar gave this silver sorceress sword to him when he was old enough to master spells and the sword as one – but he gave it up to me as a sign of kinship, for I would not spill blood with it against those he keeps as his people, worthy or not – and for me I gave him my own father's swordHrunting so he might never fall in battle against mortal or immortal." Unferth whatever else he might be is proud to claim such a close tie of kinship with Harry.

"You would have him for your lord master always, your brother?" Wealhtheow does not think it wise, this love between not-brothers, and fears for Harry – for Unferth by breed true to his sinful blood.

"I would have him for my own, Lady." Unferth's smile is full of a knowing of her own desires, with lust not for her that is gleaming there in his eyes. She looks away quickly, her cheeks burning – she is no innocent fool, to not know what warriors or sorcerers may do together without women: she can not help wondering if Harry knows his 'brother' desires him so.

0o0o0

"Father..." Harry bows down on one knee before Hrothgar's crown and throne. What he sees there worthy of his love and loyalty, Wealhtheow hopes she may learn. Bravely she steps forward and upturns her face to her husband and king.

"My son has brought me my bride to be!" Hrothgar's words ring through his hall. His people cheer, for she will be queen. Hrothgar has never had a queen one before her, and will not have one after her.

Unferth gestures he to the throne beside Hrothgar's own, he smiles – because he is pleased for he knows who she would rather have side at her side as king, and before Wealhtheow sits in that throne and seals her fate with a deed and crown, she looks with longing at Harry, who still kneels there alone.

He had not cheered, and she hopes.

Unferth steals it all away, for while the people celebrate, his hand on Harry's shoulder rises him up from the floor. His back is the last thing she sees, and a glimpse of a golden eye.

0o0o0

"Harry! You startled me, what are you doing out here all alone?" Wealhtheow asks, for in the middle of the winter the people's prince is not known to sit in the snow at night alone. He is always in the company of somebody, she has seen – his father's warriors or priests or the king's advisors. Yet she sees her own husband do nothing, and thinks sometimes that Harry really rules in his father's shadow.

"Lady Wealhtheow, I would ask you likewise. You are with child." His head had turned skyward, as if listening to the wind whisper to him. His eyes are red, and his cheeks raw. He is cold looking, and strange. Then she looks again, and he is only lonely and lovely.

"I…I didn't know – how?" She had told no one, and had not known for sure until he told her just now. He smiles at her startled surprise, and he is pleased for her.

"My magic, Lady." He wiggles his fingers, mockingly. It is a silly gesture, and she laughs away any suspicion or unease he leaves with his strangeness.

"What will it be, my baby?" His duel eyes stare her down, and she swallows. She had not been serious, but he is. She waits, and hopes the news will not be badly told. Having asked for his magic, she could not take it back – it was too late.

"A daughter…." Harry stands abruptly, blinking. The wind blows, as if angrily, howling. Harry is pale and cold looking, but takes off his outer robe and wraps her in it, leading her into the keep for her health and safety.

"I am pleased to give you a sister." Wealhtheow says softly, cheeks flushed, for it is perhaps the only pleasure she can give to him. Her sons will usurp his place, and she knows he would rule here if she were not queen. She does not meet his eyes, but his warm fingers lightly touch her chin, lifting her face to his, making her meet his green eye and gold eye. It is his only visible strangeness, but it is not unpleasant to look upon.

"My thanks…Lady, my people – my family – I am most honored to have you be among me and mine." Harry nods, as if he's said what he meant as best he could. Wealhtheow only shakes her head, baffled but pleased by his praise. It is only then that she notices that his robe should have been cold to touch, but it is as warm as any fireplace. His fingers too, had been so warmed, despite snow and cold he does not seem ever to feel or mind.

He is never ill.

0o0o0

"What will you name her?" Harry asks her, when her belly is getting bigger then any other part of her body.

"Freawaru." At this, Harry smiles in a way she has never seen before: it is beautiful – only then does she realize she has never at all seen him smile. The name means _peace-weaver_.

"Does this please you, her brother?" Wealhtheow asks, boldly taking Harry's warm hands in her chill ones and putting his hand to her belly. Her daughter has never kicked for any but her mother's attention – no matter when Hrothgar may touch her: but for Harry she wiggles gently.

"Behave." Harry fondly chides his unborn sister. She is quiet and still then, as if falling back to sleep. Harry is the first whom holds his sister, Freawaru.

He is the last as well, for with him for her escort Freawaru as her mother did before her goes to marry: to another king, Ingeld, son of Froda. She is to be raised in his domain, and Wealhtheow weeps until Harry returns.

He gives to Wealhtheow the gift of a Golden Dragon Horn. He does not tell her what it means.

0o0o0

Wealhtheow has hoped and dreaded to give Hrothgar her sons. Where Harry does not hold it against her, Unferth does. He sees her watching Harry upon the roof, making repairs to the roof so fearlessly it as if he is one knows the secrets of flight. Perhaps, perhaps, he does.

"I see how you admire him from afar, Queen Wealhtheow." She is loathed to be caught staring, but feels no shame in it. She had lost her longing for Harry with his strange gift of the Golden Dragon Horn; she only now knows she must ask him its meaning. When she feels braver, and does not fear he would fall from his place up high if she spoke.

"What does it matter to you?" Her tone is sharp, for she is not the coward she once was – she is queen. Unferth does not look down to preserve her dignity or in any show of loyal honor. He sneers in warning.

"You reach too far; no son born of your body will usurp him from his high place." He looks upward to where Harry moves so fearlessly, in him is his clear admiration. Wealhtheow wonders how it is no one else sees his desires so clearly as she. It can not be merely because they both had once wanted him.

"A son born of his father will." Wealhtheow is not prepared for Unferth to laugh at her. It rings up to fill the air, and Harry looks down, as if he knows of whom they are speaking. He does not look pleased, and his look is for Unferth alone.

"It is _his mother_ you ought to fear. Why else do you think Hrothgar would send your daughter so far away so soon in marriage?" It had troubled Wealhtheow, but she did not think it so strange. It had made them a strong alliance, her daughter's marriage, and Wealhtheow had heard Harry tell Freawaru to be proud of her domain where she would be queen.

"You told me his mother was a witch!" This Wealhtheow hisses, as if for fear Harry might hear. He can not; he should be too distant from them to hear anything but laughter and a shout. Yet her eyes meet his mismatched ones.

"Her breed has magic in its blood, but human? Oh, my queen – ask your husband with what he laid in lust with before binding you to his bed." Wealhtheow reaches down to touch her waist, where her daughter had come from. Unferth sees the gesture, and perhaps with magic sees more: sees her sons. His face is a twisted thing, full of loss and hate.

"You would yet lay in lust with him." Of that, Wealhtheow is sure. He loves Harry, who still wears Unferth's sword in his hilt: for he has ruby hilted Gryffindor.

"He does not want me, he has magic enough for the both of us – he wants a warrior. It is for a warrior he waits, and longs for, and when that warrior comes – we will all both be left alone." Unferth sneers, as if to tell her that she is surely not that. He is cruel, but right in such a judgment. Wealhtheow is not brave, and when her twin sons are born they are named that same day by Hrothgar as _Hreoric and Hroomund. _

_To celebrate the birth of twin sons, _Hrothgar opens Heorot hall.

_By next morning they are slain, the crib's bed sheets no longer red with dry blood - but no bodies or bones are left behind to find, to bury, Harry is pale and shaking by the time they find him. He had been hiding, and on one had ever known him to do so before or since. _

_"What happened?" _Hrothgar demands roughly of him. He lays hard hands on his son, pulling him forcefully up from where he was found on the floor behind the door, dazed– Harry only then turns his face to his father then.

"Be-spelled!" Unferth hisses at Hrothgar, who lets Harry go and steps away as if frightened of his own blood. If not for Unferth, Harry would have fallen back to the floor. He seems not to be seeing his friend or father, not her – not any of them – or anyone at all: his sight is still distant, far away and fearsome.

"You did fail to tell me I was not born alone." Harry looks sickened, and pulls away from them, one and all. This –he had been told (and later tells her while Wealhtheow weeps over empty graves) – is his father's price to pay. He stands, his hand going to the blade about his waist. He hesitates only at his father's next words.

"Where will you go?" Hrothgar father asks, with no sound of kindness in him. He speaks to Harry as if he is someone already owned – a slave, a horse, a dog. And Wealhtheow had never seen it before. Only now Harry does not obey, hesitating, his hand hovering to take the blade at his side.

"To kill Grendel." Harry has only ever growled then, like a man no better born then a beast. It is only later that Wealhtheow understands: his own twin brother he would kill in favor of her own twin sons.

"I have lost my sons, my heirs –I've lost enough in one day. Let Grendel be today, we will mourn - and I will send our army to slay him before the dawn." Hrothgar opens Heorot hall to drink himself numb.

Grendel comes again during that night, and Heorot hall is closed then.

Wealhtheow splits the kind's bed between her body and his, and will not make love with her king again – for all that in marriage she is bound to throne, crown, and bed alike.

Harry is not allowed out of the keep, or the king's sight. He asks one day of Unferth, for the sword Gryffindor – and it is given to him. Between Hrothgar and Unferth, Harry is never left alone day or night. Still, he waits, when Wealhtheow steals glances of him, at window side looking out to the sea.

Warriors come, and are slain by Grendel, and every time Harry seems to die little by little, withering away while waiting for his warrior. She goes to him, because it hurts her so to see him in pain. She speaks, though he is silent.

"You are not a monster, whatever your race." She does not think he will respond, so still he is he barely breathes. When he does, she is startled.

"She caught my soul after I died, and swallowed it, and I was born again, here." He weeps, and Wealhtheow knows not what to do. Never has she felt so helpless, and wonder if ever there was a queen who feels just as she does now.

"This warrior you wait for, is he worthy? Do you even know his name, or are you as ignorant as I when you came to make me Hrothgar's queen?" She says it because she must, this reminds she of her own history with Harry, this waiting, this loneliness, and the lack – of love, of life. Harry is not himself, and she fears he never will be again.

"You went willingly, as I willingly wait." Harry presses his lips together, as if he had not meant to say this, and will now say nothing more.

"Do you wait to die?" He does not answer, not because it is true – or not. It is because, she fears, he does not know.

0o0o0

Wealhtheow sets eyes upon him first and finally, the hero Beowulf, the warrior and his men, and know at once that this one was whom Harry had been waiting for. She tries to mock him, tempt him to go away empty handed without claiming anything like victory. Hrothgar knows this man, and would see them damned. Heorot hall is opened, the doors closed behind them, but the sounds of men living for every lust out of life, as only warriors know how – it draws out the wizard's brother.

What they had wanted, cruel as they are – Harry is there, watching and though he does not weep, he does nothing to help.

Grendel's arm is torn off, and the monster - just as her own sons had - dies during the night. Wealhtheow knows, for it is the night that she meets Grendel's mother face to face.

"You keep my son from me…." Wealhtheow opens her eyes to see her, above her bed. She could scream and have help, but this is a chance she can not let slip though her fingers.

"He is not yours, of your blood yes – but not born of your soul. If he came to you, he would kill you – and never forgive himself, it is why his father Hrothgar keeps him in sight – why we will not let him stain his silver sword with your blood. Why warriors who come to kill Grendel – his own brother - call him _coward_." She hisses, does the mother of monsters and wizards alike. Will that she does, in the face of a women's fury – a women that is queen and mother both. She has lost sons of her own, just as Grendel's mother. They are equals, perhaps not in mortality, but in this they understand each other.

"He awaits a warrior?" She stirs uneasily, does the wizard prince's mother eyes flicking to where Harry's chambers are – and the window he keeps watch by. How does he _not_ know that his own mother is near?

"Why?" Wealhtheow's question is like a sob, for she has seen Harry dying these past days and weeks, slowly but surely. She knows the signs of a withering heart, her own having suffered such blows. She had been young, and had healed, but Harry was older now, it would not be so easy for the likes of him.

"Harry was born to rule, with power and magic, it is why I gave him up early into Hrothgar's court and keeping. It is not a wizard's way to rule alone. Think, lady queen – of the lore of your mother's – sword fights sorcery, or sorcery fights sword, they are an equal force, the strength and weakness; he awaits a warrior to match him. That warrior must be great indeed, Beowulf who has slain one of my sons – and will steal away the other from us both." The mother of Grendel, she shudders, and for all her golden beauty and she is so very sad at this loss.

"No!" Wealhtheow begs, pleads, for what from a mother of monsters she knows not. There want is in unity.

"There is a way…" She is not being kind, but grim and golden. She will not say until Wealhtheow makes a sign of her agreement. Slowly, she nods – she would hear the wizard's mother.

"I will bed Beowulf, and Hrothgar will die. I had favored him with my two sons and this land for his keeping. Now I take the favor back. You will take Beowulf to your bed, and keep him as your king. In this way, Harry will remain by your side and the side of your king. There is no warrior greater then Beowulf - who has slain my wizard-born son's twin, this Harry knows and would not await or follow or fight for any but him." She smiles, does Harry's mother, at her own cunning.

"What will you gain?" Wealhtheow asks, for she must – there must be something, for never would it be as simple as that.

"A son by Beowulf would be great indeed, and perhaps a worthy warrior-brother of Harry – for no son of yours could be." Wealhtheow bows her head, but her silence speaks for her. They are in agreement in this – this is a deal of her own making with a demon, and she hopes never to regret it being made.

When she looks again about the room, it is empty.

0o0o0

It goes just as Grendel's mother had claimed, for Beowulf returns empty handed of the sword Hrunting and the Golden Dragon Horn. What Grendel's mother did not say is that such a son of Beowulf would desire his sire's life to prove worthy of such a brother as Harry to stand at his side.

Harry _knows_, being his mother's son, and when Beowulf is without the treasure a demon would lay claim, upon Beowulf's return – he knows. For first time Wealhtheow sees the prince of the people, the wizard born, raise up his silver sword to Beowulf's throat.

"You have spilt the blood of my brother, defiled my mother, and raised yourself up upon my father's thrown, claiming his wife and crown." Beowulf shakes his head, wide eyed – his words are as surprised as any who hear Harry's own.

"I do not want any of it!" It is his claim, Beowulf's friend _Wiglaf_stands at his side – as Unferth stands by Harry's own.

"He speaks truth, Harry. Did you not hear and see it for yourself?" Unferth asks of him, gently. Harry's duel eyes flick then to Wealhtheow's own.

"So be it!" Harry spits, and flings himself the way his father Hrothgar had gone. He does not fall, but flies, his shape shifting into one that is winged and golden as his mother's hide.

"Beowulf!" Wealhtheow had but watched Harry fall become more then a mere human-like shape, and is not aware until _Wiglaf cries out that another has followed him in falling._

Impossibly bold, Beowulf had leaped after and climbed up a dragon-back. Never do either return to claim the crown and throne that is Wealhtheow's to give by marriage right. Heeding the words of the mother of a monster, and the mother of her dearest friend, she makes husbands of a warrior and a sorcerer – claiming Unferth and _Wiglaf as kings. _

_Together they are strong – of Harry and Beowulf, she hears news of but once more – by _Freawaru, her daughter, who tells of what might have been.

A warrior-lord and a wizard, who come to her aid, then leave by dragon-wings. Of two others who kept them company – a boy and his lady mother who does not speak to any who are not nobility.

0o0o0

(_Its 1AM, I'm off to bed, good night, good day, sweet dreams and day-dreams and readings and writings_. _Your reviews are all of these things to me_.)


	39. The Servants Song, HPxTemeraire

_The Servants Song _

**WizardsGirl **: HPxTemeraire x-over: I rather like a Transported back to the Temeraire time as a young child or Master of Death, before the Temeraire books, and perhaps in China. Works as a Servant for Yongxing, and is there when Laurence & Co arrive. Goes with them & starts a budding romance with Laurence. When Laurence pulls the "Traitor"  
and takes the cure to Napoleon, he begs Harry to stay there and be safe. Harry  
only reluctantly agrees. Can have smut or not, your choice, but would like a  
bit of kissing at the "Goodbye" scene where Laurence goes back to England and  
Harry stays in France.

_(As "The Throne of Jade" takes place in China, there will be Chinese – translations can be found at the end – I've only three sources, the book series by Naomi Novik: Google Translate English/Chinese (phonetically), and the Harry Potter books themselves that have been translated into Chinese: as found on 'Bathrobe's comparison of Harry Potter in Chinese, Japanese, and Vietnamese (CJV) translation' site. For my own amusement, this is set 6th Year "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: after ch. 10".) _

0o0o0

Harry put on his Invisibility Cloak, with its silver gray shimmer and the strange touch of woven water against his skin. He went out of the portrait, and found his way to the Headmaster's office. It troubled him, the Gaunt house that Voldemort's mother had grown up in, and 'Slytherin's ring' which Albus Dumbledore wore on his ruined hand.

At the Headmaster's office entrance, he spoke the password that let him within.

"Hello, Harry." Dumbledore spoke in greeting even as Harry was no where to be seen, Harry let the Invisibility Cloak fall open. He wasn't the surprised, only tired. For a moment Harry felt guilty for possibly making the Headmaster miss much needed sleep.

"Sir…" Harry greeted, eyes sliding about the room he had ruined before his fifth years end. Here were brightly painted eggs, there a silver Time-Turner with black and white sand, and the Sorting Hat snoozing on the three legged stool Harry had sat in to be sorted into Gryffindor. He avoided this way what his eyes most sought – Dumbledore's burnt looking hand, the ring with its black stone.

"Sir," Harry began again, closing his eyes for courage, "why are you wearing Slytherin's ring, the ring of Marvolo Gaunt – _Voldemort's_ grandfather?" Harry did not bother to hide his confusion, his accusation. He wanted to know everything after having felt as if he was living his life bumbling about in the dark, the light – that should have been the prophesy, should have been Sirius Black to adopt him in third year.

Dumbledore gave a great shuddering sigh, and sat slumping, and it occurred to Harry how old Dumbledore truly was behind his twinkling blue eyes and snow white hair.

"I am an old man, Harry; I have as many regrets as anyone and some are much greater then the usual wizard realizes. You and I are not ordinary wizards, as I think you've come to realize. Once, you asked me what I saw in the Mirror of Erised: I see in it just the same as you do, a life of family and friends that I had and lost. This ring….Harry, it is not what you think it is…" Upon his finger, Dumbledore turned the ring, thoughtfully.

Harry was still and quiets, half fearing that if he moved – Dumbledore would send him away again.

"I gave you the Invisibility Cloak for it belonged to you, your birthright as your father's son, as it was passed to each generation – but the origin of this ring, and the origin of your Invisibility Cloak – even the origin of the Elder Wand I hold – they were brought about by brothers, the brothers Peverell – the Elder Wand for Antioch, the Resurrection Stone for Cadmus – and your great ancestor, Ignotus held the Invisibility Cloak." Dumbledore then set the Elder Wand on the desk for Harry to see, and the same for the ring which Harry could not turn his eyes from.

"Resurrection Stone?" Harry's voice was but a whisper.

"A cruel thing, it lets you only see the ghosts of those loved ones you have lost." Dumbledore sighs and looks out the window. Harry strides quickly to where it sits, and takes up the ring. The room fills with ghosts only he can see – Lily, his mom, his dad with his arm wrapped around her – Sirius with a smile, and Harry can't help but stumble back, tears filling his eyes. Dumbledore turns to face him, his good hand around the Elder Wand: "_Accio_!"

Maybe he means to help, maybe he means to take back the ring - but Harry is startled and thinks it's an attack, so he retaliates without thinking: "_Expelliarmus_!"

The Elder Wand flies from Dumbledore's hand, rolling to Harry's feet.

"Sir, I'm sorry. Here." Harry begins, standing up with the Elder Wand in his hand in offering, the Ring he likewise holds, trying not to look at the ghosts, his family, looking as baffled and confused as Dumbledore himself does. He does not take up his wand; instead he only shakes his head.

"It is yours now, fairly won." Dumbledore seems somehow relieved, it his Harry's turn to be confused. Dumbledore flicks his hand toward the fireplace, and it burns bright and hot. While he does this, he is looking at Harry, and so the sixteen year old knows something is horribly wrong when Dumbledore looks at him in the firelight and his eyes are wide and his face pale.

"Harry, oh Harry – you've broken it I fear." Harry turns to look over his shoulder which shimmers under the Invisibility Cloak, the silver Time-Turner is smashed, and not all the shimmering on his shoulders is his Cloak's doing. The sands of black and white are spattered over his skin and clothes. Harry tries to swipe it away, and when he looks to his hand, it is transparent.

"Sir!" Harry tries harder to get the sands off his clothes and skin, but it's no use. He's not solid, not even to himself.

"What's happening?" Harry demands in a shout.

Dumbledore is not there anymore, Harry stands still but all the rest of the world is turning and twisting around him, and he's watching the world go backward. He stands still, but the world itself is moving. It's a blur, and Harry can do nothing but close his eyes and hang onto the only solid things upon him – the Elder Wand in his hand, the Resurrection Stone set in its ring, the Cloak about his shoulders. He wonders what he looks like to those who might catch a glimpse of him for a moment, perhaps a ghost.

Then it jolts to a stop and Harry is sick, shaking, bowed over in a garden.

"_Nǐ zài zuò shénme zài huāyuán lǐ_?" *

Harry shakes his head and looks up, and there is a man standing there, frowning at him. He's standing on the path, and Harry is kneeling on the dirt, getting sick on the grass and flowers. He's Chinese, Harry thinks with a stray thought for his once-girlfriend Cho. Seeing his face, his features, the man's lips twist in a sneer.

"Who are you?" Is the demand, thankfully in English, and Harry staggers to his feet as if drunk.

"Harry Potter." He answers, holding his heaving stomach as he puts his feet on the stone path – where they were probably supposed to be. He offers his hand, but it isn't taken, but looked down at disdainfully.

"Go away. Go back to where you come from, foreigner." The man in his fine rich clothes walks on, in a clearly cold rebuff of any desired meeting. For a moment, Harry has no idea what to do. He stands still and feels stupid.

"I would be glad to go – only tell me, where am I?" Harry sees that the back turned to him stands still as stone, and the man glances over his shoulder at him with a suspicion stirring in his dark eyes. His black hair falls like a striking waterfall against the fine clothes he wares as if a second skin. This man is wealthy, Harry realizes – and powerful here, if the force of his personality behind his eyes is to be guessed.

"I suppose you do not know who I am, either?" Snide, yes, but he's lost the condescending tone he'd first taken. Harry feels grateful for that much.

"No." Harry says it simply, for in this it is the truth.

"I am Yongxing, come - let us see if you are sincere." There is no where else for Harry to go, so he follows. They come to a pavilion in the midst of the garden, with silk walls and Yongxing does not as much as pause before pushing past such fine cloth. Harry follows, eyeing the walls and the height of the pavilion and something uneasy stirs within him, for what could be hiding within? He goes on, and inside is dim, shadows are all that are moving against the dark. There is, Harry thinks, nothing in here at first to see.

"Lady Lung Tien Lien." Yongxing speaks softly, as if waking a child - she rises up from the floor, stirring, startling to see with her white hide and glinting red eyes. She is a dragon. Harry does not move, does not dare. He knows this for some kind of trick, or trap, and there is only a silk curtain to keep her in here. It is no protection at all.

"Crown Prince Yongxing – I am pleased that you have come to visit me. Why do you speak English?" The white dragon, she _speaks_. Harry has never heard of such a thing, and finds himself staring. His fear is fled from him.

"This is Hālì Bōtè, he comes to greet you at my invitation." Yongxing throws him a look, partly puzzled. Harry steps forward, Lung Tien Lien raises up to look upon him, white wings unfolding to keep her balance. She looks awkward at this balance, but manages to meet his green eyes evenly with his green. It isn't his name, this Hālì Bōtè – but it isn't done to correct a Crown Prince in his own country. At least not when Harry thinks he may end up trapped here and does not want Yongxing for an enemy.

"Prince, he is but a foreigner. Why do you abide him to be here?" Harry has never seen a dragon sneer, but Lung Tien Lien manages it very well, by the curl of her lip and the gleam of her sharp teeth.

"He says he does not know _me_, does not know _where_ he is. Tell me the truth by his tone, in judging a voice – no Celestial can fail." Yongxing tucks his folded arms into his sleeves and watches as teenager and dragon eye each other.

"Your mother's name, your father's name...?" Lung Tien Lien prompts, with a flick of her tail.

"Lily Evans before she married my father: James Potter was his name." Lung Tien Lien nods, her nostrils flaring. Harry wonders if there is a scent one gives off when lying, or if it's in the pounding of his heart, or by his temperature. There is something she can tell with her keener senses. He does not know what it is, so can not avoid it.

"_Was_, you mean they are gone - dead?" Yongxing asks, catching the past-tense.

"Yes." Harry answers, short and abrupt: Lung Tien Lien's red eyes glint up at him – in them is a daring challenge, and it burns in him to meet it.

"Do you know where you are?" Harry shakes his head, and Lung Tien Lien hisses warningly. He answers aloud, shortly.

"No." Yongxing inhales and Lung Tien Lien meets his eyes in affirming what Harry says as truth.

"Do you know whose garden you are in?" Lung Tien Lien asks, and this question Harry thinks he may answer for what little he has figured out.

"His." Harry jerks his head toward Crown Prince Yongxing. Said Prince snorts in a most un-royal manner, but says nothing allowing the white dragon to go on questioning him.

"How did not come to be here?" For the first time he hesitates wondering if Lung Tien Lien – dragon or not – truly has some power in finding what he says is truth or lie. He does not understand how he came to be here – and that's the truth that he clings to.

"Time-Turner." Lung Tien Lien tilts her head, considering.

"You did not lie in thinking the garden is Yongxing's though it is mine in truth, so you were only wrong and that is no lie. You tell the truth again, in the manner of your travel – though I do not know what a Time-Turner may be, can you show me?" Harry closes his eyes, knowing he would not show her even if he knew the making of Time-Turners.

"No." Is all he says, and it is no lie.

"Then truly, you do not know where you are, where your home is. You have nothing here." Harry clenches his fists, and nods. Yongxing looks him over, and smiles at what he sees.

"By grace of the fact that you have done no harm to me and mine by opium, I would have you work for the Lady Lung Tien Lien and I for your keep – do not be fooled by us, we are but a handful among many who know anything of the West, your English, and your strangeness saves you – for we are strange too, stranger." Crown Prince Yongxing declares, and what choice does Harry have, really, but to work for this man? He has nothing but the Elder Wand – with which he may cast a spell to know north, but what help is that when he does not know where he is to start with? And the Invisibility Cloak he can use to escape – but to where, again - would he go?

The Resurrection Stone is all but useless to him, expect as a curiosity to sell, but any money made would not last long at all.

"Do you agree?" It is the white and red eyed Lung Tien Lien that asks. Harry answers as he must, and that is no lie.

"I do." He bows his head, helpless.

0o0o0

Prince Yongxing had gone away to bring back one of the Celestials, sent away as an egg, his name given before his hatching as Lung Tien Xiang. Harry was there to meet them at the port. An English ship with an English crew, speaking English. Harry stood quite still at the sight. He did not move, in fact, until Prince Yongxing put a hand on his shoulder, a frown upon his features.

"Harry, are you quite well?" His eyes scanned the faces of Prince Yongxing's fellow travelers.

"Where is Feng Li?" His eyes met Prince Yongxing's accusing and dark. Prince Yongxing had asked of him protection, and Harry had let Feng Li go overseas when it became clear that Harry himself would not be going. Harry did not know the reasons why, perhaps Yongxing feared to let him set eyes on an England Harry had known as home, although far into the future. He knew where he was now, and when. He had had to learn, to learn Chinese and make himself skilled and useful so to survive.

"He went overbroad after failing to kill the _unworthy_ companion of Lung Tien Xiang." It was hissed into his ear, and Harry had thought that to be Feng Li's fate, so closed his eyes. His students were killed to kill, taught by the Master of Death himself. They were honored for that, and long lived – survivors just like Harry, orphans – Harry had never had to search for his students, when word got out that there was a man who could sometimes not be seen, who spoke with spirits of the dead, and whom could will anything to be or not to be – a wizard, a Master of Death; they had come to him. It was either teach them or fight them – and Harry could not afford so many enemies lucking about and waiting for him to fail, to make a mistake.

So he had thirty very good men, vying for his title, for his magical items: on the assumption that they would outlive him.

"What does Lung Tien Xiang think of his own companion?" Harry asks, as no other would dare. Servants are unloading the prince's things from the ship, loading them onto the carriages that Harry has brought here.

"Thinks the world, the stars, the very sea are all within his Captain's grasp, a great man, a worthy one to _Temeraire_." The foreign word for a sea's ship commander his hissed between them. This man, this Captain, Prince Yongxing very much dislikes.

"Temeraire, a French Captain?" Harry asked with a frown, for the word meant much – meant bold in rash and recklessness. Harry has never thought a Celestial would act in such a way and wonders if the new naming is true to Lung Tien Xiang's nature.

"A _ship's_ name…." Prince Yongxing practically spits. Harry tries very hard not to smile or smirk. A sea Captain this man surely is.

"Lung Tien Lien has missed you." There is a longing in Yongxing's eyes that tells Harry the feeling is mutual. Harry waves the prince toward his servants and awaiting carriage. With good speed they will reach the palace before dusk for dinner.

"I have missed the both of you; it is good to be home." Yongxing admits softly, for his ears along to hear, before striding with all the arrogance born in his blood.

"Wait, wait – what are you doing with that? Why aren't you helping us load up this stuff?" The last question was addressed to Harry, making him take notice of the young man of twenty who looked sallow to the point of sickly, with sharp features and dark hair.

"I did not come here on this ship, sir. I am the servant of Jiaqing Emperor's royal family." Liu Bao, a relation of said Emperor's mother, comes forward chuckling kindly in amusement.

"This one we keep for his tongue and skills." Liu Bao winks, ruddy cheeked and hinting to sensuality and sexuality, feeling deviant, Harry playfully licks his lips at the older man, leering playfully. Liu Bao laughs out loud then, at the looks on English faces. They range from disgust, disbelief, and wide eyed blankness.

"Ah, ah, I jest! Hālì Bōtè is very good man, servant who makes us laugh, well paid bodyguard, fine magic's." Liu Bao bobs his head hurriedly, in an earnest admiring way, and addresses the harried youth who'd asked Harry to unload a ship when it was not his duty to do it.

"This is Arthur Hammond, be good to him, this one we may keep." Liu Bao looks better for having his laugh, heaving himself up in a carriage that sets off after Prince Yongxing's leaving Harry to sigh and fend for himself among men of his own England, a man out of time.

"A pleasure, Arthur Hammond – they call me Hālì Bōtè, but my name is Harry Potter. Let me see Lung Tien Xiang's Captain, and we will have this all go as smoothly as can be expected today." Arthur Hammond takes a frantic glance for all the things being packed off and on and away, shrugs and leads him back upon the ship. He flinches at the way that Harry calls the Celestial dragon by his Chinese name.

"Sir, are you really a servant – or, or a slave here?" Arthur Hammond asks more softly, in undertone. Harry knows what he looks like, a rich man – maybe a merchant – in silks and sashes.

"I assure you, I can come and go as I please, to Egypt or India, just as any English man might care to do. My services are only as a servant, and are not all men servants to someone in someway?" Harry smiles at the relief he sees in the younger man of no more then twenty years.

"Why not back to England? – it's clear it means something to you, from the way you stared…" Arthur stutters to a stop, at the look of forbidding that crosses Harry's features.

"I can never go back to the England that I knew, _sir_ – and thank you not to say something of that kind in my hearing – or that of my employers - again. I have found a home here. I have a place here in China, and whatever skills that Liu Bao praises you for, he has known me longer. I know why England has sent the likes of you to China, and it is not for Lung Tien Xiang's sake that you've arrived, but for benefiting your own name and your English trade. There have been others – and if you dare insult me, there will be more after you." Harry keeps a smile on his face, despite the ferocity of his words. Arthur nods, and keeps nodding until a dragon's head peers over to glance toward the shore.

"That's Temeraire…Captain William Laurence can't be too far away." The dragon glances toward Harry, quickly, then away – as if caught spying and suddenly feeling shy.

"A pleasure, Temeraire – I will be your guide until we reach where we are going." Harry bows to the Celestial, who lowers his own head respectfully in return. A man steps forward and Harry knows him at once for the Captain. His presence is powerful, in a uniform that Harry can tell is hastily put on, his hair is braided back and blond, his eyes a keen and piercing blue. The blue of sky and sea, and this suits his background and future very well.

"And where are we going?" He asks, rudely, but understandably so in the demand.

"The Forbidden City." Harry answers, equally confident of his own way with a smile. He steps forward, boldly as the brass that shines on Laurence's jacket, and straightens his collar quiet casually. Captain William Laurence quickly indrawn breath is in surprise, but Harry only looks up at him through his lashes, still smiling silently.

Harry thinks he will like this Captain, this Celestial, for he feels calm and at home with them, here on a ship, his forefinger against the soft skin of the Captain's neck.

0o0o0

"You are courting Lao-ren-tze." There is accusation in Lung Tien Lien's gleaming red eyes. It does not surprise Harry that her eyes are keen enough to see, or that her tongue is sharp enough to say it first. Harry feels that he is being obvious, but can not help himself. Harry has to look up at her now, but that has not been all that has changed.

Yongxing had chosen her for his Celestial companion, and such ties were strong. As strong, she would doubtlessly claim, as that of Master and Servant. For her sake, for that tie of a Celestial companion he is no Crown Prince now, but only a Prince who will never be Emperor. To have been groomed for that throne, and then denied it, was in life's lot a cruel jest. It his right of blood to consent to be Lung Tien Lien's companion, or else she would have chosen Harry – who was…unsuitable, as unsuitable as Captain William Laurence for Lung Tien Xiang.

"Lady, what business of yours is it whom I take to my bed?" Boldly he asks this of her, knowing she can tell by his sharp tone that he honestly does not care what she thinks. Perhaps she will be offended by his crude wording and leave it be. Her wings fan wide above them, like the heaven's clouds. She is lovely, but for a twist of fate in her birth, she is white as the mourning colors and called cursed. It has hurt her, and there are times that she would only stop in her studies if Harry or Yongxing had not interrupted her, for food, for drink, for company, so lonely she often was.

It was not right, it was not just, but Harry could do nothing.

"He is a savage! A British man of sea war, who made poor Lung Tien Xiang into but a common fighting dragon of the air! He is not worthy of you and most certainly not of Lung Tien Xiang." Lung Tien Lien lowers her head so they are face to face. Harry continues to set out her food, all her favorite dishes. She will notice, and think this a gesture for peace between them, it will settle her. It is not that what Harry means in his gestures, it is an apology, a most final goodbye.

"His name is Temeraire." Green eyes meet red, and there is silence between them. Harry stands and walks away, as if it could be so simple.

0o0o0

"I did not mean for him to die, you must know this if nothing else." William Laurence has his hand upon Harry's shoulder, and his head bowed. Yongxing had died here, and Lung Tien Lien had fled from here with her companion and champion's lifeless body. The life he had been given, that he had built for himself in a strange land, it was gone and he could not find his place within it, he did not fit here – if ever he had.

"It was not Yongxing who sent the assassins for you, do you believe that Lao-ren-tze?" This man was the adopted son of the Emperor who was Yongxing's brother. Serving them, these sons of Emperors, and their dragons – it seemed Harry had forgotten who he was, or was becoming someone else.

"If not him, then who?…Temeraire was so sure." Harry takes a breath, and though he looks on the ground and its rubble, he sees gleaming red eyes accusing him of murder.

"You have made an enemy in Lung Tien Lien, and not known it - Yongxing went away to fetch you, and she knew – I would have gone away with you." William inhales in surprise, sharp and quick. He had suspected Harry would come away with him, to England and his homeland – but he had not dared ask.

"Now?" Harry might have changed his mind. Sharp green eyes glance to William.

"Now there is no choice in it, you do not know Lung Tien Lien as I do, she will see you dead – to hurt Temeraire, and all of Europe against you and yours, to spite your memory in history. What is there to keep me here now?" Harry turns toward William, he is warm and solid.

"You would be safer to stay here." William Laurence holds him tightly, giving away the lie to his words, that he would rather Harry be away from him.

"I am Sǐwáng Xué Shuòshì, the Master of Death – and those assassins sent to kill you, they were _mine_ – I trained them, I made worthy of the work they did for the greater good, and they _should_ have only answered to me. Lung Tien Lien knew that, and used that trust between the three of us, so well known to my assassins – to give orders in my name. You know something of honor, William Laurence – do you think I could live with myself, knowing that in my name you would be dead – that for my love and life here, Yongxing is no more?" William Laurence tenses, for he had not known Harry to be Sǐwáng Xué Shuòshì – but Harry hugs him tightly and lets him go – walking toward his rooms.

William Laurence watches him go, with a look around at the ruin – this disaster – and can do nothing but follow Harry. He wonders if he is really taking Harry away at all, or if Harry is taking him.

0o0o0

When Liu Bao comes to talk to Harry in the middle of the night, he is not sleeping – but awake and waiting.

"Hālì Bōtè, you are leaving." It is not a question, for Liu Bao _knows_ and is only saying what – by now – even the Jiaqing Emperor knows. Harry nods acknowledgement of the fact, and when Liu Bao makes a gesture for Harry to follow him – he does so.

The Jiaqing Emperor and the Crown Prince Mianning are waiting for Harry. He had expected no less then this. They meet as equals here.

"You have been loyal to our family, Sǐwáng Xué Shuòshì. Though my brother's name must be marred, it is best that the English – and the French - do not think that we are an Empire controlled by our Celestial dragons, Yongxing would understand this." Harry clenches his fists, so the Chinese people must think their Prince – Harry's _friend_ – a traitor against his own brother, for the sake of Temeraire – and William Laurence.

"So it must be." Harry agrees, softly and full of regret.

"You do not think Lung Tien Xiang would be happy, with Prince Miankai?" At the Jiaqing Emperor's words, Harry only shakes his head, a gesture in the negative. Lung Tien Lien had thought the ten year old boy so worthy, but he knew both William Laurence and Temeraire, and knew this was not to be.

"And nor do I, Jiaqing Emperor. He has chosen a companion worthy of the name." Liu Bao agrees with a sigh.

"Very well for the foreigners to think Yongxing a traitor to me, a curse brought about upon him by a Celestial of white mourning; let my people think – but a companion of a Celestial not being of my family? They will revolt." Jiaqing Emperor continues, and Crown Prince Mianning frowns with worry – for it will be his Empire to inherit, one that may be split between two Emperors for the sake of Celestial twins. It would also distress the twin Celestial's mother, Lung Tien Qian – whose health and respect Jiaqing Emperor held to his heart.

"William Laurence, Emperor, is a man whose family is a distant descendent of English royalty, for his father is Lord Allendale - he sits in the House of Lords, for his seat at Wollaton Hall in Nottinghamshire." Jiaqing Emperor nods thoughtfully, and Crown PrinceMianning is smiling.

"Then he is worthy of adoption." Liu Bao declares, with a wave of his hand.

"An adopted fourth son would be worthy as royalty to have a Celestial companion, but could never be Emperor." Crown PrinceMianning agrees, for his favor, having for his companion Temeraire's twin Lung Tien Chuan.

Harry bows his head in agreement, pleased. He bows his way out of the lives of the royal Chinese family he has served with all his skills, for to stay he had had to be skilled, and in that skill was his success and survival. He leaves them now, but is not pleased by it – as they are not glad to see him go.

0o0o0

"You speak Durzagh, the dragon language." This does Tenzing Tharkay accuses him of, around the fireside, within eyesight and earshot of the twenty feral dragons. Harry had spoken with them in a hissing tongue that they were so besotted by, they followed and hunted for Harry – and thus for all his 'guests', as they called those he traveled with. William Laurence does not trust their guide Tharkay, and stiffens at the tone of accusation against Harry – whom he nightly shares a bedroll in the same tent.

"I do not." Harry answers calmly, and Temeraire turns his head toward them. His eyes shine with curiosity.

"They understand you – explain it." Tharkay demands with a wave of his hand toward them- those twenty feral, and Harry only smiles at the mystery of it, the puzzle none had been able to solve. Never before had Harry felt so inclined to answer. Gong Su, who has traveled from China to cook for Temeraire, looks up ant him and meets his eyes knowingly.

In China, it is known that the Sǐwáng Xué Shuòshì speaks Shétou de shé, to make even the dragons obey him – and the lore is that, like men, the Sǐwáng Xué Shuòshì has his dragon assassins. The people do not fear, for the Sǐwáng Xué Shuòshì is loyal to the royal family and its friends. Gong Su knows, and knows too that William Laurence is the adopted fourth son of the Emperor - who does not yet have sons of his own. It would not be strange to send the Sǐwáng Xué Shuòshì with an adopted son of the Emperor to be sure that sons were born to him in foreign lands, where the ways were strange and there were dangers. If Sǐwáng Xué Shuòshì guards the bed and sleeping tent of the Emperor's adopted sonless fourth son, it is none of Gong Su's concern – he is a simple cook, and will serve and help the man who has hired him the best he can.

"I speak Shétou de shé, the tongues of serpents." Harry shrugs at this, with a tight smile. Tharkay, aware of the look between Harry and Gong Su, does not press him. The proof of what he says is simple is in the truth that the dragons understand him, and think so highly of a clever tongued man who can make himself understood – when before all men had done was yell at them and shoo them away from a dinner they didn't have to hunt.

"Does it work, this Shétou de shé of yours with sea serpents?" Temeraire asks me, quiet and thoughtful; William Laurence shares a sad and knowing look with his young Celestial. Harry sighs and stretches, knowing his are not the only mysteries at this fireside. He does not share the suspicion his lover has within his heart for Tharkay, for that man seems one like Severus – loyal till the final dark of death, if as suspicious and curious as the day is long.

"I do not know, come to bed?" Harry looks to William Laurence with half-lidded eyes, and a smile. He likes how nice and red his Captain's blush is, even at sunset.

0o0o0

There is a kiss good-bye in France that Harry will never forget, for it happened in Paris, so-called the city of love, and broke his heart. William held his jaw just so with gentle palms, tilted to plunder and claim his mouth as if for the last time, fingers tangling in his hair, tongues dueling and teeth biting just enough to sting with blood that this was real, and happening, and hurt.

The sickness here is no threat to the French forces as the British would wish, against those wishes they three had went – he, William, and Temeraire too. It had chilled Harry, to realize that Temeraire had once had this sickness to, for the Celestials have always before been healthy. No illness had touched them since Grandfather – the first Celestial born of two Imperials, had hatched.

There had been but one thing to do, and all of the English set against them from the start.

"They will _kill_ you, like any pirate – like any traitor. Please, please, do not do this." Harry pleads, not knowing in what language he speaks, if it is Chinese or English. William Laurence presses their foreheads together, eyes open and hurting just as deeply to the heart.

"I must, I am a traitor, and I can not let that taint my name like a coward, go on living with it until I die. I believe I am right, but they will never admit if I die like that. I have to do this, please, understand me." Harry does, but only gives his William frantic kisses on his stubble jaw and smooth neck, tempting.

"Take me with you." Harry asks softly, pressed firmly against William he feels his want, his lust for life and living.

"I would be a traitor too." Harry pleads, _only take me with you_.

William laughs, brokenly, for he would have sobbed otherwise.

"It is never easy with you, I would have naught to do with myself if I had not done this thing, and neither would you have – yet you let me do this to my life, and ask again I ruin the both of us." Captain William Laurence has known the battles of war upon sea, land, and sky – but the cost of this war being won, he feels raw and betrayed in turn by this side of war – war should not be decided by which country had a cure to a plague, and the victims on both sides of it were dragons who wanted nothing to do with war at all save to please their 'captains'.

"You can not return, Harry." Lung Tien Lien says softly, sadly, but unbending. She is white and gleaming, like pure snow. Temeraire would not go near her, and she would not let Harry out of her sight.

William kisses his brow, and bows his head.

"If I would ask one thing of you Napoleon Bonaparte, would you grant it?" Captain William Laurence, an English fighting man, asks this of a foreign king and emperor.

"Of course, sir, you are our savior." Napoleon Bonaparte looks curiously to him, and head still bowed, William holds Harry as if he'd never let go.

"Keep him safe, do not let him fight – he'd doom us all, ask Lung Tien Lien – please, what they called him in China." William lets go then, but Harry is still, for William has made this choice for them both – Harry had only asked to be taken here – to go with his Captain, but not to be taken back. That is the loop hole that William will use to convince Temeraire to go, not yet does the Celestial suspect that William will be a traitor, will stand trail, and will go to his grave to uphold his ideal of justice and law. Harry does not think he is the only man out of time with his kind; only William was born into it, and bore it with a steel spine.

He was the stronger, and Harry the stranger, William took one backward step, weeping.

"Sǐwáng Xué Shuòshì, the Master of Death stands before you – and Napoleon Bonaparte, if you dare set him loose to war – there will be no warring, only death." Lung Tien Lien brought her head to nudge at Harry's side, for Harry was staring and still and she did not like this – he wrapped her head lovingly in his arms and wept.

Lung Tien Lien crooned to him, sung in English, in Chinese, recalling all her scholarly lore, until the sky was too black for Harry to see any black dragon flying from France.

0o0o0

_Sir, _

_It is my pleasure to send word to you that William Laurence and Temeraire await you in New South Wales, Australia._

_Sincerely my best wishes,_

_Arthur Hammond_

_British and Chinese Ministry _

_Lao-ren-tze's guest _

0o0o0

(你在做什麼在花園裡?)

Nǐ zài zuò shénme zài huāyuán lǐ?

(What are you doing in the garden?)

(死亡學碩士) Sǐwáng Xué Shuòshì: Master of Death

(哈利·波特) Hālì Bōtè: Harry Potter

(舌頭的蛇) Shétou de shé: Tongues of Serpents

(_I just want everyone to know: your Transformer/Harry Potter prompts will be a new "story": "**Halves of a Whole**", each chapter being written in response to a prompt: in a way that can be connected to other prompts, or as I feel it is its own individual story of its own.)_


	40. Birth of Blackheart, HPxGhost Rider

**Birth of Blackheart**

**DayDreamNinja: **Harry Potter/Ghost Rider, Hints of Harry/Johnny, Harry/Blackheart(Tom). (Hints of Mephistopheles/Harry/Blackheart(Tom).

(_Okay everyone, we're going to pretend this,–the graveyard Caretaker is Carter Slade, a Taxes Ranger, but we aren't going to say he's the First!Ghost Rider._)

0o0o0

Harry remembered he was dead before he opened his eyes only to see Albus Dumbledore – who he knows is also dead - smiling down at him. The old wizard reaches out his hand in offering, and Harry takes it: the skin is dry, the hand is strong but wrinkled, and he gets to his feet with that hand in his. He can see plainly where they are: Kings Cross, cleaner and empty of life, and the feeling of waiting pressing on him to speak.

"Is it limbo?" Harry had thought that there was death –the end, and there was life, but this was eerie. It was not either life or death, it was a place to pause, to catch your breath and be still.

"This is within you, but real in its own way for you have a choice to make." Dumbledore agrees while wordlessly offering a lemon drop, and silently Harry takes it. He puts it in his mouth, to taste, to use his living senses - as if a sweet that is so sugary and sour can prove this is happening or not. It's real to him, he knows.

"What choice?" Harry asks, Dumbledore sighs, and looks about them sadly. There is a baby's cry, and Harry looks toward it out of the corner of his eye.

"What's that?" He does want to know, and he does not. Dumbledore answers both.

"The choice is going on, or going back: you are a Horcrux, Harry – and that is a piece of Tom Riddle's soul. It is powerless, helpless. Voldemort did not know what he had done, using the Killing Curse upon his own soul: upon you - the Master of Death." Harry would feel cold if he was able, but he feels only calm.

"What would happen, if I were to go back?" Harry asks, looking to Tom's soul, looking at a infant, a child, crying and abandoned – not his own soul, but his – he has carried it before his earliest memories. It has been a part of him, and he worries for it.

"You would not be a Horcrux. You would kill Voldemort and live your life as you wish it." Dumbledore takes from his robe the Elder Wand, and smiles at it as if remembering all the good things that had happened in his long life. Harry can have that sort of life, happy, and long.

"What if I do not go back?" Harry is young, and year after all he's fought in some way for his survival since he was eleven years old. He is tired, he has seen death, and does not want to see more. His friends may yet live, or they may die: and worse, he – like Dumbledore – could outlive all he loved in friends and family.

"You will go on, but Voldemort will still die. I do not know if he will go on, or if this is his final death." Harry may chose to go on, but what Dumbledore means, is that this is perhaps Tom's only chance for the same: and it's _his_ choice to make – not the wizard born named Tom Riddle.

"What your saying then, is that is…Tom's soul, and if I go on, _it_ goes on, we both do – and if I go back, it just…ends, for him." Harry asks this, for he wants to be sure. Blue eyes twinkling, Dumbledore nods. Light flashes across his glasses, and Harry gets a glimpse of the train arriving behind him.

"If I stay, I go back – if I get on the train, I go on." Dumbledore simply smiles and nods, sure that Harry will make a choice. What choice Dumbledore would have him make, Harry does not dare ask. He gathers the swaddled bundle of Tom Riddle's soul, in his arms, against his chest, the baby's cries quiet.

He watches Harry with big ruby eyes, they are cautious and curious. Harry's own eyes are as green as growing things, but if between them is not a bond, there is – at least – an understanding.

Harry gets on the train with Tom, running his hand over the cold metal rail, taking three steps and then the seat to the left side; they two aren't alone. In a suit of black and white a man awaits them, hands clasped together as if caught clapping, and a wicked smile crossing his lips. He isn't really human, Harry knows, like he is a wizard, this man is something more then merely a man.

"Well, well," he bows his head in greeting, but the leer of his eyes does not leave Harry's own "a good man dies, eh, Master?" Harry leans back in his seat, watching this man who is watching him.

"I don't know you." It's a fact, and the man grins in the face of it.

"No, no - not yet…but you will. You and I are partners." The man leans forward, and his eyes are dark and Tom fusses at his nearness, uneasy.

"This place is like a lake, this limbo, anyone can come in, but not everyone learns to swim – some, Master, some _drown_. You don't belong here. This place – it wants you gone, you are Death, but it won't let you leave – not yet – not with the baby." His face flickers, and it isn't a man's face, isn't a _human_ face. He reaches out a hand.

"You've got to trust me here." The child soul of Tom would fit in this man's hand, Harry has time to notice. Time, it seems, may be all he has.

"I don't even know your name." His nostrils flare, as if scenting those words for truth or lie. He tilts his head, studying him with an inhuman gaze.

"You don't, do you?" Lips part and are licked, and Harry can't look away. There is something that attracts him, repels him, and Harry couldn't put a finger to it, there is right and wrong- between them is, something, a bridge.

"Okay then, truth time – a very long time ago, there was me – Mephistopheles, and there was the Lord in heaven and Satan in hell, and those two sides, they made a pact, following me?" Harry only nods, and with a smile the devil goes on.

"Earth is neutral, a battlefield, but sort of like forbidden fruit – we both want it bad, but it's just not good for us. Neither of us are quite ourselves on Earth, but you, you like to _play_ hide-and-seek, but I've found you, so you've got to hear me out. Now, Satan and the Lord and all that rot, it's just a bunch of titles that got caught up in religion and mortals and morality, there is where you belong, in heaven as Master of Death, and me? In hell, I'm Mephistopheles, the devil – and dealing in soul's already damned, it's a good bit of business. Souls are like seeds, okay?" Mephisto leans in closer, so his breath whispers in Harry's ear.

"Life, and if you have enough souls you get a child; one of ours, one of _us_." Mephisto closes his eyes, his form flicking, now a suited man, now something terrible and wicked with wings and too lovely to look at. Harry shivers to see it, something within in him waking, reaching out like to like.

"You do this, you bring this soul tied to yours onto Earth, and he'll become one of us, Master. It's a power you can't have alone. It'll rip a way onto Earth, a hole that anyone – anything, could burrow into. There has to be a balance between us. You'll have a child," Mephisto reaches for the babe, for Tom, and touches him with his hand, skeletal fingers thin and sharp talons tucked safely away from the skin; "and I will have a ghost tied, a shadow to ride – one of them, one of the wicked souls sold to me. Do we have a deal?" Tom's skin shivers like sand, something quaking beneath the surface, waking. Tom reaches out a little hand, fingers seeking. Harry had made his choice, and this he knows – it is Tom's choice now. Mephisto lets the babe grip his finger, grinning at the strength of the grip.

"You will leave me be?" Mephisto laughs.

"Is that what you really want, Master?" Tom fits into Mephisto's arms, as if they were made for each other. Harry has to wonder, how he would fit; if there was a place for him with them. He both dreads that thought and longs for it.

"No." Harry answers the devil, sitting back in his seat and closing his eyes.

When he opens them, he is on Earth, and he remembers everything that has been - that Mephistopheles had hinted to, and more, so much more: between Harry and Mephisto is a deal within a deal; with demons nothing is ever so simple as it seems.

Harry Potter was that damned deal-maker, the Ghost Rider, and to him all time was for the taking. He was first and foremost, the ledged behind the lore. Mephisto could have his pick of ghost riders, bounty hunters, hell fire at its best – or rather worst. Any mortal man or woman who'd made a deal could be chained into the fires, could become but an aspect of Harry's own power.

He was well aware of the irony, that Mephisto had chained him to hell with his own deal, had bound him by hell fire and set him loose upon Earth, he was tied both to hell and heaven, but there would never be a home for him in either.

He can't break the deal, for it would mean the death of Blackheart.

0o0o0

Blackheart took his name and nature on the night that the whole of Christ's Crown, New York fell, and the lot of them will never climb wholly out of hell. So many souls brought low birthed him into hell. What first he felt was loss, but not for the claiming of souls which would have been passing strange, no it was for something he could not name.

He goes up to Earth, where once Christ's Crown rested, and standing in the midst of smoking ruin is hell's fire, the bounty hunter Ghost Rider. He sits astride a broomstick, and is clothed in robes and cloaked in black, the clothes do not smoke or burn, for all that his body is but fire and bone.

Blackheart falls to his knees before this power, for there are ghost riders- the bounty hunters and hounds of hell, and then there is the Ghost Rider, to whom Mephisto had bound to him with a deal. Yet the Ghost Rider was not a demon or devil, he did not heed Blackheart's father, he was hell fire itself, the stuff of heaven's wrath, his power more then enough to give Mephisto all the ghost riders he wanted in a generation.

The skull, fiery and grinning, turns to see him, as Blackheart knew it would. It feels as if the entire world waits for the Ghost Rider's words, as most certainly Blackheart thinks it should.

"What do you seek upon the surface of the Earth, son of Mephistopheles?" There is much smoke as Christ's Crown burns, so Blackheart can not be sure that the sky does not dim from smoke of fire, or that the very heavens cloud to hide them away. The scar of Christ's Crown, and its curse, is that is ever burning, even now, when Blackheart who was born of its ashes, is full grown. It will ever be a scar, ever smoldering. He wonders if Ghost Rider has been living here long, or only visits, and if he has been waiting for someone – as it seems – and hopes too that he is not late.

"Mephisto said I would find answers here." He didn't, but Blackheart is sure he will find them.

"You have a heart." Ghost Rider sounds sure, and full of something like a warning.

"I am soulless." Blackheart hisses, for he once had a soul – of that he is sure – and he thinks sometimes he misses it.

"So too am I." The Ghost Rider sighs, and the broom hovers just over the ground that his feet could touch, but do not. The empty black sockets of the skull stare at him and Blackheart can not help looking black though he knows to be wary, to do this is dangerous. Then the body of fire and bone goes out like a candle's flame, and there sits on a broom a boy of seventeen.

He smiles, and Blackheart smiles back, their eyes meeting, and then Blackheart remembers - he remembers Harry Potter, and knows this – the Earth, the play of good verses evil – it's all a game to the likes of them. It's a game he and his soulless siblings play most earnestly, be they the lot of hell or heaven, for it's the only acknowledgement they can claim; to do right or do wrong. It's a game played in all seriousness.

Blackheart knows his name was once Tom Riddle that he had a soul and shared a body – a living-dying bond with Harry Potter: he remembers before his birth as Blackheart.

It is then, face to face with Harry Potter – that, for the first time, Blackheart flees.

0o0o0

The Caretaker tips his hat to the gravestone marked for Carter Slade, it's the kind of hat cowboys used to wear, and the smile he give that tombstone is the sort of smile given between old friends. There is no Carter Slade bones buried here, no bones at all, only a engraved mark upon the marker, a triangle, a circle, a line, where there would have been a Christian cross on any other grave stone. There is no body under this grave, it's the marker that is important, the marker that calls like to like.

"Hey old man." Those, he knows, are strange words coming from a man with white hair of his own. He does not care, as he squats to address the tombstone. "Wish you were here, I've got a real puzzler, and between the two of us, you were the wiser." His voice bubbles like a river brook, whispering just below the weather, hushed but insistent.

He puts his hand on the tombstone, and it burns under a touch of bone and fire. Bone hand grips bone hand, and the Caretaker heaves up the Ghost Rider from the depths.

"You called?" He crouches on the grave stone, still young, and Carter Slade feels the stirrings of envy that got him his deal, that made him who he is: a ghost rider, the Caretaker. He's the first ghost rider, but only the first mortal – this immortal, this is the Ghost Rider that leaves all others but a pale shadow of imitation.

"These's this boy, Johnny Blaze, he's become another ghost rider. I think Mephisto made a mistake." Carter smiles at the possibly, and the Ghost Rider tilts his head in inquiry.

"He's got a good heart, this boy, one might even say righteous; he made the deal to save his old man. What do you think?" Harry inhales, as if he can scent the latest generation of ghost rider, and maybe he can and does. Carter may have made the first deal, but there are things about the Ghost Rider that even he doesn't know, and doesn't bother to guess.

"I think he and I will be meeting." In a wisp of smoke, the Ghost Rider goes. Slade only shakes his head with a laugh. He hopes Johnny-boy will swim instead of sink, for sure he doesn't know whom he's going to be encountering.

0o0o0


	41. Saurian Song, HPxDinotopia

**Saurian Song**

**HiddenByFaeries**: Dinotopia/Harry Potter: Andrew/Harry, Parselmouth ability (making it reptile rather then serpents), Dinosaur T-Rex or Velociraptor "adoption".

I've only read _Lost__ City_ by Scott Ciencin; so I _hope_ I'm not making Andrew Lawton too out of character – but I probably did just that.

0o0o0

It is often asked: if walls spoke, what would they say? Yet more often than not, what is writ on walls is disregarded as fable and fancy. Harry Potter looked at what was written upon the walls of Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets… and he believed. Maybe it was only that he was twelve, and had survived something so many had not; he well knew the Dark Lord hunted him, that he had survived the bite of a basilisk, and the raw tears of a phoenix - but this could well have been his tomb, yet this chamber had given him a gift. His life, and the secret truth beneath lies – so much was the irony, that Harry found in the Chamber of Secrets.

It was not ending, a tomb, this Chamber, but an entrance – a gateway to a beginning. This was what the walls stated in words only Harry could see and understand. He saw the language of serpents, and understood it – just as he understood serpents. There was more. Fawkes had perched upon his shoulder, and when he sung, Harry heard him; heard in words as he had heard the basilisk.

"_Child of Tears, Child of Venom, of the Forbidden you are. Come, let us go, and let me take you away to where we can be free_. _There they would welcome you_." Fawkes had met him in Gryffindor Tower, had urged him to take up the Invisibility Cloak and follow him here; where the face of Salazar Slytherin looked down upon him.

"_What are you_?" Harry asked of Fawkes, who ruffled his feathers in a shrug.

"_Phoenix to wizards_, _Archaeopteryx the Forbidden named me. Fawkes will do for friends."_ Fawkes nudged Harry as if sharing a jest. Harry caught his breath in his throat, that word; Archaeopteryx was the first bird, or rather - the fossils of it. If Harry had not had an education outside of magical means, he would never know that.

"_And the basilisk, what was that_?" Harry looked to the underside of his wrist, fingers barely brushing the skin there; the black basilisk venom flowed through his veins. They did not look like veins anymore; perhaps the blood that flowed through him was more akin to vines or roots.

It was like an art, but it was no henna painted upon the skin, no ink tattoo to mar the surface of the skin, it was deeper – an art that was his blood. It marked where flowed blood, where blue veins had shown, now was black basilisk.

There was a silver scar upon his arm, where phoenix tears had saved him.

It was the arm of the very shoulder upon which Fawkes perched, as a matter of fact.

"_Basilisk is bad, Titanoboa he is named among we Forbidden folk_." Harry licked his lips.

"_How do I understand you? I thought __parseltongue a Dark Art, to speak to serpents_." Fawkes crooned soothingly, and Harry let himself be lulled.

"_Nay, it is not as simple as they may wish._ _Parseltongue came from the breed of the Forbidden, out of the Forest. There is Dinotopia, where the races of eons speak in harmony; their tongue is ours."_ If Harry understood what Fawkes said, he meant that there were dinosaurs out there, dinosaurs that reasoned and spoke to people like Harry. That the language spoken between dinosaurs and people was the same that Harry was speaking now, was in fact reading.

"_What do I do_?" Harry asked of the empty and echoing Chamber of Secrets.

Salazar Slytherin's features upon stone looked down upon him. It was then that those hooded black eyes blinked, the fierce brows seeming to soften.

"_My Heir_…." Salazar's voice was a creeping hiss. "_You must have many questions, and I have your answers. I have made many mistakes, in seeking this the Outside; I closed the Ways between Dinotopia and this, the Outside_. _Now there is but one way to return and it is here – this Chamber will open within the Forbidden Forest, where sits a circle of sunstones. Speak and the Forbidden Mountains will open the Way_." Harry stood very still, wondering if this statue of Salazar was sentient – or merely a messenger.

"_I hope, my Heir, that you can find a better life there then can be given to you here among the ignorant Outsiders_." It seemed so strange to Harry, to be well wished by a man who he had been taught contempt for.

"_Wise was Salazar of the Forbidden fen_." Fawkes's voice rung out in the silence, least it lapse between them too long.

"_You want me to leave Hogwarts_?" Harry asked of the phoenix, startled and hurt.

"_It does the Outside no good to see the Forbidden, for they think it Dark. This too did Salazar Slytherin find; this did Tom Riddle deny, and now seeks to sway. Come away, Child of my Tears, with me you will find in the Forbidden a home and sanctuary as Hogwarts is meant to be among the magical of muggles_." Fawkes sung, and soothed. Harry ran his hand through those fire bright feathers. Fawkes was warm and soft; Harry believed that the phoenix would never hurt him.

"_What about the Dark Lord_?" Harry felt wrong about that, as if he was meant to stay and finish something here. Fawkes nipped at his ear, playfully.

"_Tom Riddle is a Child of the Outside now, you and I are of the Forbidden. The prophesy endures and promises, your paths will cross in this lifetime again, and again, until the test rings true. The Way will ready you_." Harry nodded, as if the statue of Salazar Slytherin had sensed his resolution, the wall became a gateway.

Harry, one step at a time, followed Fawkes when the phoenix flew toward it with a glad song. Harry looked to the walls of the gateway, trailing his fingers against the smooth surface as he walked. Fawkes came circling back, to land upon his shoulder once more.

"_It is as Salazar said; the Way is not far from here_." Fawkes hummed the words, pleased with himself.

"_How was this made_?" Harry asked in a hushed whisper.

"_I know not, Salazar Slytherin of the Forbidden fen had secrets, his kin came from the city that sunk called Poseidos. Such as they closed and opened the Ways. Outside calls you wizard and witches, and your gifts magic. Dinotopia knows you as Sentinels, and your gift is Light, and by that Light you led the Saurian into the World Beneath. Of the Sentinels, only __Ogthar and Almestra led the Saurians to reclaim Dinotopia. The rest did not return._ _Now there are humans without magic, who know of your cities, but have not the Light. This we teach them as best as we can_." Fawkes sounded saddened by this, his wings spreading protectively over Harry.

It was then that Harry saw the circle of sunstones which stood where the gateway ended, shining as bright as the sun above. Awed, he reached to touch them; they were as warm as they had looked to be. The glowed with power, a power Harry found echoing in himself, they were magic, these sunstones.

Harry walked to stand at the center of the circle, and felt there the currents of power, the ebbing and flowing of the Way.

"_Open_." Harry Potter asked, with the same declaration he had used upon the Chamber of Secrets.

The sunstones obeyed, and the light flared and flashed like lightning. There was no sound of thunder, only silence.

Where Harry Potter and Fawkes had been was now only air.

0o0o0

Harry Potter found himself waking, and he looked quickly around himself. He lay in a ring of sunstones, and the sun was rising – and Fawkes was singing something sweet and lonely. It had been what woke him. Harry listened to it, the soft notes of pain, and the hum of sweetness. There was only the song of the phoenix, and Harry realized that here – Fawkes was like Harry, the last of his kind upon Dinotopia.

It was only when the light of the sun lit up a path that Harry had been staring at without seeing, not until sunlight hit it did Harry see that they were sunstones. He sat staring at it, wide eyed and wanting.

The path of sunstones were like a river of magic that pulled playfully at his own, teasing Harry to follow, to see more of this land that magic promised was his very own, his home. Fawkes song had stopped, but Harry only knew that because Fawkes sat staring at him in something like worry.

"_Child_?" Fawkes crooned, soft and sweet.

"_What is that_?" Harry asked of Fawkes, hushed.

"_It is the Way_." Harry blinked blurred eyes, and realized that in staring so he'd caused his eyes to tear.

"_Where are we_?" Harry wiped his eyes on his robes, glad for the sweater and jeans he wore beneath the black robes.

"_In Sacred Valley nestled between the Forbidden Mountains and the Rainy Basin, upon Dinotopia_." Fawkes had looked to the rising sun, and his beak opening. It was then that Harry saw the sharp teeth there, and noted the wicked looking talons upon the phoenixes three toes.

"_Is it dangerous_?" Harry asked, eyeing those teeth for the first time.

"_Carnivores do dwell here, but they would not more harm a Sentinel anymore then I would. You are sacred to us, perhaps more to us than to the rest of the Dinotopians_." Fawkes chirped reassuringly, pressing his warm body against Harry. Harry's mind swam through memories of carnivore dinosaurs, the primeval predators – which had only seen pictures of. His imagination put things into quick perspective; those carnivores had to be _huge_.

Harry's hand tightened on his wand, and he felt something like laughter choke him.

"_This is Sacred Valley, it is forbidden here to do harm. This is a place of meeting and mating, of nesting and hatching; the teaching ground of the predators. They protect it so that others who are not carnivores do not know of it._" Fakes breathed against him, slow and steady, and Harry felt his own breathing calms to echo it.

Harry sits amongst gritty sand and sunstones. He sees now the nests of earth in which eggs lay, they are covered in dirt and warmed by earthen things; eggs that are pale white and about the size of his hands fisted together. If he reached out he could touch a nest which holds a clutch of uncounted eggs.

He saw too, as his eyes became unfocused and blurred, that there was something watching him in turn, to still to be sleeping. It watched him with great big golden eyes, and a snout that sharp teeth could not hide.

"_I mean no harm here_." Harry spoke, soft and reassuring.

"_Peace, Sentinel, I have eyes to see though coming here your Light near blinded me_." Her voice was a low growl; the head peeked up from her hiding spot, eyeing him with open appraisement. Cat like, her tail swayed with her curiosity.

"_I am Harry; this is Fawkes – what is your name_?" Softly, she snorted in something like contempt.

"_Only the Sentinels named us at our hatching, we carnivores kept that custom, since Salazar Slytherin parted the Way here, there has been no naming. In this way, the nameless predators mourn the passing of Sentinels. It is something the grazers have forgotten, they take names from the foreign dolphinbacks and forget the magic and mystery of a Sentinel's true naming_." She stood as tall as Harry now, approaching him as she spoke, until she hovered over him, her snout nuzzled into his collarbone. He felt embraced rather than attacked, and brought his arms up to hold her head. He didn't know if he would – or could – have push her away if she had wanted to bite, but it was nice to feel her leather-like skin against his fingers.

"_I...I'm sorry_?" Harry did not know if he was apologizing or asking.

"_Do not be. You are here now Sentinel, you will name_." At that, she was content, and breathed in the scent of him in. Harry was for the first time sure of one thing, that she was right; and he would name those predators that had waited so faithfully to be named by a Sentinel.

"_Would you like a name_?" Harry asked of her, and she peacefully exhaled, and nodded her head tightly.

"_Majesta_**.**" Again she exhales, in a sigh, and Harry realizes that is her sign of being pleased with him. She straightens proudly, and calls for her pack with a barking screech. They come swiftly, yelping and chirping in howls. Harry would have been frightened into running away if not for Majasta standing over him protectively.

"_Light be blessed, a Sentinel has_ _named me Majasta_." She tells the pack of them, and Harry counts ten and gives up because they do not stand still, they gather around, weaving in out and around each other in a snake like fashion. Heats turn towards him, some staring straight at on, others tilting in a bird-like fashion either left or right.

"_We are honored, from which Sentinel kin do you descend_?" Harry licked his lips, but dared not look away from their gazes. It was a male's gravel tones that had asked, and there upon his head was a crest of crimson feathers that crowned him.

"_I am Hair of __Salazar Slytherin; Outside I was named Harry Potter_." The male's nostrils flared, scenting Harry, his sorrows and regrets.

"_Child of Tears, Child of Venom, and this Heir is Blessed - his blood is basilisk, his tears will heal us. A Child of Prophesy to the Outside, they name him the Boy Who Lived when others died with a Word of the Dark_." Fawkes trilled out, bright and clear. Harry could have groaned – as if being a Sentinel _here_ weren't enough, Fawkes would sing his praises from the Outside too.

The male that had spoken drew suddenly back, so startled he might have been struck out at.

"_A Word of the Dark was used against this Sentinel ? They dare to taint the Light of the Sentinels? Does the Light not call to Light? Had he no one to protect him, to be his fangs and talons_?" This was a hissed demand by the male, and the others yipped and yelped in outrage and fury. Not waiting for answers to questions.

"_None would dare, there this Sentinel would stand by his Light alone, or fall to Dark_." Fawkes whispered, full of quiet and creeping fury, and Harry saw it for the first him. This was an outrage that Fawkes had hidden and buried, a burden he had not shown to Harry until they reached here – where it was safe to show.

"_Heir of Salazar Slytherin, we will not call you by a name of the outside. As Sentinels once named predators, carnivores would honor the newborn of Light with a name. So we ask this old honor of you, may we name and be named by you in our old ways_?" This was the asking of a female, her hide was a dull shade of camouflage, but her eyes were a warm golden brown.

"_Yes_." Harry answered, for what else could he say and survive?

"_Sentinel Lightlord kin Slytherin, we name you_." Harry nodded slowly and thoughtfully.

"_Are you a mated pair_?" Harry asked of the crowned male and the golden brown eyed female. They glanced at each other, fondly, and bobbed their heads in joined agreement.

"_Jove I name the male, Juno the female_." It was right, Harry thought, that he name them after the Roman gods and goddesses, whose people had spoken Latin, the root language of magic, which here they called the gift of Light.

"_You would name us all_?" Majasta asked, and it was clear then that Harry had not been wrong in naming her, here among her pack, she ruled.

"_Yes_." Harry answered, for there was no other answer.

0o0o0

There was something Andrew Lawton was looking for. He didn't know if it was truth, or lie, but he did not -yet -dare look alone. The edges of the Rainy Basin were neutral grounds, between the carnivorous predators and the herbivorous. Still one had much to be wary of. It was not worth finding out the truth or lie of that something if he lost his life.

"This is crazy." Ned Lawton muttered under his breath, perhaps thinking his younger brother wouldn't hear.

"Is it?" Andrew asked of him, curious and worried. The looking wasn't worth it, really, if he had no one to look with, to share in the discovery of truth or lies.

"It's just a story, 'Drew. It wasn't meant to be taken so seriously." There are stories, Andrew well knows, and then there are _stories_.

"It is better to know, than not to know." The Troodon warrior Arri, an Unrivaled of Halcyon spoke softly, but sure. Andrew was glad to have one of his companions on his side.

"Only think we're learning out here is how tempting a target we can make before we can get eaten." Ned grumbled, not in the least shy of showing his displeasure. He wasn't the only one that kept a wary lookout; Arri glanced about in a highly agitated manner, looking every which why that he could with paranoid intensity.

It wasn't that there was nothing out there to see, occasionally Andrew caught those shadowy shapes and blurred movements. They were watched and warded, almost herded, but none of the three of them knew why.

Andrew knows he is hard on his friends, and that if worse comes to worse and they are attacked – Arri, warrior Unrivaled of Halcyon or no – would stand no better chance against a natural predator than Andrew or Ned. No respective training in weapons can truly compare to the raw hunger and fury of teeth and talon. It may startle them into pausing long enough to get a word out, and that was what they hoped – but stop them? No.

The shadows grew longer with every step they took, and Andrew Lawton looked for a way stations shelter. They stood as the Sentinels pact; no predator would attack one, for the hearth fire stood for a peace treaty in these parts. The predators were told to be the protectors of the pact.

It was _what_ the pact was that Andrew Lawton had heard so many stories about while growing up. No one truly knew, and the only ones who might were the predators with their long memories and sharp teeth. It was a very good reason why no one was inclined to get near enough to ask them; for such fear that they might not be in a reasonable mood – or understand words. They did not, to Andrew's knowledge, often speak the language that Dinotopia's humans and dinosaurs shared. They had words of their own, so Arri had told; words that only another dinosaur could hear and understand.

Ned, walking ahead of the path, called out a sighting of a way station. Andrew Lawton picked up his pace, no matter his self-claimed questing; he had no desire to linger in the midst of the carnivores after dark.

Their way station was not empty. Light flickered through the windows from within it. The brothers shared a glance, even as Arri showed no such reluctance, coming through the threshold with a knock for politeness sake. Andrew and Ned followed after, and found Arri standing very still just within.

There was no fire at the hearth – the light came from a boy, who sat watching them calmly. He did not look very intimidating, there was a good sized egg cradled in his arms, but he was certainly not enough to shake Arri so.

What gave them pause was that there was a wicked looking Archaeopteryx perched upon his shoulder; it had deadly sharp looking teeth and talons. They had been expected, it was obvious from the unsurprised expression on the boy's face, and the light – coming from, Andrew saw but did not quite believe – a sunstone cupped in his hands.

The Archaeopteryx's beak gapped open with a hiss, and Arri slowly bowed very lowly.

Andrew had known Arri for a very long time, it was not too surprising that the Troodon warrior would bow in a meeting; it was a show of respect all Unrivaled of Halcyon practiced. This though was very careful show of uttermost respect and certainly more deferent, almost reverent. Arri's belly rested on the wooden floor, head tucked to the side and away from direct eye contact with the boy and the Archaeopteryx.

"Arri, what…?" Ned asked, frowning and crouching down to Arri's side as if to check him for an injury.

"Sentinel Lightlord kin Slytherin gives us his greeting." Arri spoke softly, as if he did not dare raise his voice.

"A Sentinel! Him?" Andrew Lawton could not help but stare, wide eyed at the other boy. He could not be any older than Andrew himself.

"Fawkes did not know if we would understand each other. I am glad that we can." He sounded like any other boy would sound like too. He smiled, and Arri shyly raised his head up at those words.

"They named me, after I named them. It is something of an honored tradition, as I understand it. My name, if you would use it, is Harry." The boy Sentinel, Harry – or Lightlord, smiled and in the light of the sunstone it felt warm and strange to Andrew.

"How are you a Sentinel?" Andrew asked, eagerly. If this was his only chance to find out the truth or lie in the stories, he would not waste it. Curiously the boy looked to the Archaeopteryx and hissed in a questioning way. The Archaeopteryx, who Andrew now gathered must be Fawkes, seemed to understand for his head nodded and he hissed right back.

Andrew knew than that he was hearing and seeing the oldest language which only the predators spoke, perhaps out of defiance and deference to the long lost ancient Sentinels.

Or, perhaps, one had been at last found.

"Fawkes found me and I opened a Way between the Outside and Dinotopia, and came here." Harry reached a hand toward Arri, who stretched out his head to be touched. There was a look of awe at that show of trust that Andrew did not think Harry would ever loose.

"We are pleased to meet you, Sentinel Lightlord kin Slytherin – er - Harry; I'm Ned Lawton – and he's my younger brother, Andrew – we travel with our friend, Troodon warrior Arri, an Unrivaled of Halcyon." Ned made swift introductions, Fawkes feathers smoothed, where Andrew had not noticed them growing ruffled in upset. Andrew glanced gratefully at his brother, for that had been well done of Ned.

"I know. You have been watched since coming near the Rainy Basin, for what reason do you come here?" Harry seemed to speak with more curiosity than authority – but Andrew was not fooled into thinking that he did not possess some. Nor was he uninterested in the question he asked, for all that he seemed to fuss with the egg. Andrew had to wonder what was in it, for he had never seen one so large.

A true Sentinel or not, it did not matter if Ned and Andrew did not believe – Arri clearly did, and others would if Harry's claim was backed by the carnivores of the Rainy Basin. What that could mean, Andrew did not dare guess. He swallowed uneasily, but answered.

"It's funny that you should ask, being what you apparently are – I wanted to find out how much truth there is between Sentinels and the Saurians." Harry frowned and looked up at him, tilting his head in something like curiosity.

"I can not say what there was, but what will be...? I will do my duty." The egg in Harry's hands shook under his touch as if straining to be free and agree. It clicked than, that Harry was hatching the egg – no, that it was hatching, right now. Andrew had only a vague idea how hatchings usually went, but this surely wasn't it.

"What…what kind of Saurian is it?" He couldn't help in asking. There was something almost wickedly playful in Harry's green eyes.

"Tyrannosaurus rex, their eggs are rare, and the lady Magna Mater gifted it into my care, as is – I was informed – the most ancient trust custom." Harry sounded far too amused to be so burdened. Andrew and Ned shared a wide eyed look. No one ever saw so much as a hatchling Tyrannosaurus rex, to see an egg was almost unbelievable.

"Why did you meet us here?" Ned asked shakily, knowing it had been no accident of happenstance.

"I am obviously on my way to the Hatchery; will you not come with me? The way will be long, and I am sure there will be time enough to ask all you can think of – and perhaps I will have my own questions to ask and be answered, so, what do you say?" Harry, for all his obvious oddity and strangeness, seems sincere and lonely.

Andrew Lawton only hesitates in the time he needs to get his breath.

"Yes!" He states, firmly, almost afraid Harry will take it back. Their shared enthusiastic smiles only make Ned sigh and roll his eyes.

0o0o0


	42. Heart of the Great Grail, HPxFateZero

**Heart of the Great Grail **

**CkyKing**: HP&Fate/Stay Night prompt  
Pairing : Lancer (Diarmuid Ua Duibhne)/Harry Potter

(_7-8 years after the War, Harry fight Voldemort. Let's watch as the Great Grail unleashes its power upon the being that dared taint it/them. And he is not alone, Harry re-summoned the Servants loyal to him to help him fight and I really want to see the reunion between Lancer and Harry._

_Flashback :_

_Harry grant the wish of the winner and truly become aware of his power as the Great Grail when the path to Akasha is opened._

_I would be eternally grateful if you could manage to make Harry wear the Dress of Heaven, even though he is not an homonculus, the Dress of Heaven is the heart that controls the Great Grail, so he can wear it because it's in a way a part of him_.)

0o0o0

There is a place that power goes. Power is magic, it is will, it is achievement, it is wishing, it is hoping, it is dreaming, it is doing and being. It is having, taking, giving. Everyone on Earth has a little power, even if they do not think they do.

Harry Potter knows this, for he walks though that place of power clad in the Dress of Heaven, it is eerie white and with ribbons of red and delicate gold's. Harry has tasted that power of all people, touched its heroes and heard songs no one on Earth now remembers.

In dreams Harry as the Great Grail, smiles and walks within Akasha where he belongs; it is here, Harry does not question, that he will go when he dies. It is home. He is the heart of Akasha. He has seen his name inscribed upon the Throne of Heroes. This is where he came from, and to where he will go.

Harry Potter first saw it when he was twelve years old, and called upon as the Great Grail to grant the Wish of a Master. Akasha had opened for him to see the power plainly, and it had poured the power into him, filled him up past full, touched him with light enough to illuminate his skin, had crowned him and called his name and had left him feeling lonely.

That had been the Wish, and Harry did not even care what it had been.

Akasha had been like a lover, like family, like friends, like home to him. He missed it when he woke.

It wasn't _gone_, for Harry could see the lines of power that even muggles called lay lines, and witches and wizards called Gaia's magic, and magi and mages and magicians alone had the idiocy to try to claim and tame.

Harry is a wizard, and what he's learnt that means is this; he can never be a magician, a so called mage or magi. That isn't what he is. He does not manipulate power as they do, he is a part of that power. He has power – more power than he knows what to do with, more power than anyone truthfully does. There is the power of being the heart of Akasha, clad in the Dress of Heaven; but that is not all that Harry is, he is a wizard, a child of Gaia the Earth. He knows this, for he has met with her.

Her hair is dark and done up in an artful bun, the rest falling upon her shoulders. She smiles to see him, to greet him.

"A child of my magic, the Great Grail, I am proud." She reaches for him and Harry let's her take his hands in hers, they are warm and dry. Here she can be seen and spoken to, and Harry is awed. She has a will of magic all her own, and Harry can hear the whisper of it, he knows the will of Gaia as well as the pulse of his own heart – but he is the Great Grail and the vessel of Akasha's will, the wishes of Arayashiki – or Alaya as is her preference .

"I would think you would loath and not love a savior of people." Alaya stands tall and proud, unsmiling at Gaia. She is ever at Harry's side, but rarely speaks what she thinks; Arayashiki is the will of people of all ages – to survive, to thrive, and to be remembered. Her moods are as changeable as any riot or rave.

"What, child of my magic, do you call those people who have none of my gifts, who do not hear me?" Gaia's eyes are red as flashing fire, and Harry dares not answer.

"Muggles." Gaia chuckles, knowing it for a word like mugging, like mud… which is not earth, not air, and not water, but something else, and usually useless and dirty. Alaya's high cheeks flush at the implied insult; Gaia's face is rounder and serene. Alaya's eyes narrow, but she does not flinch away.

"Very clever, my child…it is good to speak, to be heard and listened to – there is only so much to be suffered and endured." Her hands, in Harry's own tighten with a fraction of strength that takes his breath away for it could crush and smother him and he would be no more.

"Do not pity her. She would kill all people, magician, wizard, human alike. Ask _her_ how the Dark Lord lives when he should die." Harry's green eyes meet her fire bright ones, and there is something like sorrow there.

"None of you heard me, no one heeded my warnings, and so I asked for aid, to survive, as is my right." Harry breaths shallow and slow, and listens now very carefully -now, when it is too late.

"There are those called the True Ancestors; and while the Fairies are kin to Wizards and my people – these strangers are not born of me, of nature. They came to kill." Gaia's tears are stones that fall clear as any crystal and do not break.

"Kill what…who?" Harry asks, and despite being safe in Akasha, it's heart, it's Great Grail – he is cold.

"Kill you, all of you – humans, it matters not at all if they are muggle, or magus, or wizard born. True Ancestors will hunt you all, and will slay you until your blood is no more." Alaya's voice is raw with grief and rage, and Gaia looks upon her and is silent as the judging grave.

"How…how are they these True Ancestors concerned with the Dark Lord?" Harry asked, shakily.

"One sought to make him a Dead Apostle, a vampire. Only in part did the True Ancestor succeed. The Dark Lord can not die." Gaia sounded sure, and her grip on Harry's hands was almost painful.

"That does not mean, Great Grail, that he can not be Sealed by the Burial Agency of the Church." Alaya insisted, and with her hand upon his shoulder, Gaia let him go.

"How?" Harry asked, knowing how shaken he sounded.

"You will have help." Alaya promised, with a kiss to his brow.

0o0o0

Harry Potter woke up – and waking after dreaming of Akasha was always done with an inner painful reluctance. This time it was less to do with an ache of his soul, and more the ache of his body and bones. He remembered what had happened before his dreaming, the clash between the Dark Lord Voldemort and himself.

It had been upon the grounds of Hogwarts, and now he was not there. He was elsewhere, so he knew that the pain meant he was caught. It was dark and he could not see his cage. He closed his eyes, Alaya had promised him help – but where was it?

Silence rung in his ears, and a sneer crossed his lips - some Great Grail he was. A Master's used a summons for a Servant – and the Fifth Holy Grail War had no yet started. He smiled; _so let it start_.

He too would summon Servants, he needed not the design, for he was the design, the very Great Grail – what he needed, had already been spilled, blood – his blood, was strong enough to smell.

Harry knew just how bad a sign that was – and what summoning might do him further harm rather than good, depending on the Servant.

He called to Akasha, to Alaya, to Gaia. The power flowed, filling and full and the light that lit his cage- it was made from his own skin, shining brighter than any _luminous __of the wand. _The power summoned seven Servants for him, for he was no mere Master, but a Great Grail.

"You're _bleeding_." Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, Harry could tell by his tone – even if he could not yet see the Lancer Servant, for he was too tired to yet open his eyes – was outraged. Harry couldn't help but smile. He felt Diarmuid's encircle him, holding him steady.

"Hello to you too, Lancer..." Harry was aware of how tired he sounded, and how his words slurred.

"Who did thus to thee, Great Grail..?" Arturia Pendragon demanded her voice very low and threatening. He felt her touch his face, turning to see the damage there. She snarled and spat to the side, into the rough dirt of his cage.

"Step aside, Saber. I will save what I can." This was a woman's voice he had never before heard.

"Who, who are you?" Harry demanded of her, glad that Arturia did not do as she asked, likely standing firmly between this strange Servant and the Great Grail.

"I am the Caster Medea – and he _needs_ me. He is kin to me, so step aside." This time, when Harry nodded, Arturia did so, moving to sit at his side and keeping a hand upon his own. He squeezed it in thanks.

Medea's hands were upon his brow, and she inhaled sharply to see more than the mar of a lightning bolt upon it.

"A curse mark, upon the Great Grail… We must be rid of it. Or my help or not, he will not heal whole. Great Grail, my descendent, I give you my vow." Harry tried to open his eyes, to see her, but again saw nothing but darkness.

"What…what is wrong with me? Why can I not see?" Harry demanded it of them, not caring how he stuttered to speak.

"You are blinded." Alexander the Great, the Rider speaks, in his usual blunt way.

"Be silent." Gilgamesh demands of him, the Archer's tone promising pain if he is not obeyed. Harry does not want to think of Gilgamesh, King of Kings, for he knows that he likely did terrible things for the greater good – and would not hesitate to break and build anew all that there is.

"Name them that did thus to you, and I will slay in your name, Great Grail." Hassan-i-Sabah speaks as soft as silk, an Assassin at heart.

"Not…can't die, the Dark Lord – gave me…the curse scar." Harry reflected in irony, that once that lighting bolt scar had been his favorite feature.

"He…he needs to be Sealed." Harry breathes through his mouth, shakily. Medea's hands are warm, too warm, upon his face. She pours her magic into him, and he sucks it up greedily, but it does not touch the pain or his blindness.

Harry knows than, that he is dying.

"Was it a Dead Apostle or a True Ancestor?" Gilgamesh asks, sounding thoughtful. Harry wonders if he knows ways to Seal them, or worse. It is best he does not ask, for the answer is probably a little of both.

"The Dark Lord's Death Eaters, Voldemort, Tom…Tom Riddle…white skulls, snakes – marked on arms." Harry tries hard to tell them everything he can, but Medea kisses him like a mother on his brow when he can not seem to find the right words to say.

"_We kill_." It rumbles out of the dark, a promise made in the midst of madness.

The Berserker, Harry knows will lead what Harry has unleashed, a Wild Hunt of Heroic Spirits, they who have no need to rest; who can not be escaped. It is not in Harry to feel pity for them, he hurts so.

"Hush, my child. It is enough." Medea's touch is gentle, and she holds him, pouring her power into him. She shares with him what she Sees, what one of his Servants lays eyes upon, all share alike. This she shares with him freely, a gift. He will not be blind.

"Is breá liom tú." * Harry feels the kiss of Diarmuid Ua Duibhne upon his lips and gasps as he feels his curse scar grow cold. It, he knows without Medea saying so, heals.

Gilgamesh gives a gift to Kirei Kotomine, and it is Sealed.

0o0o0

Is breá liom tú. *

Irish: I love you.

* * *

Servants of the Great Grail:

Saber: Arturia Pendragon

Lancer: Diarmuid Ua Duibhne

Archer: Gilgamesh

Caster: Medea – ? Mage's Association- Unknown/(_acting_) Kuzuki Souichirou

Rider: Alexander the Great - Sakura Matou/ Shinji Matou

Berserker: Heracles/ Hercules

Assassin: Hassan-i-Sabah

0o0o0

The Fourth Holy Grail War is Fate/zero, the Fifth Holy Grail War is Fate/stay night. In which it becomes obvious that something had corrupted the Lesser Grail and Great Grail.

(Class : Servant – Master)

Saber: Arturia Pendragon - Shirou Emiya (adopted son of Kiritsugu Emiya)

Lancer: Cú Chulainn (Sétanta) - Bazett Fraga McRemitz/ Kirei Kotomine (who still retains alliance with the surviving Archer Servant Gilgamesh)

Archer: Shirou Emiya (Counter Guardian; alternant timeline) - Rin Tohsaka

Caster: Medea – ? Mage's Association- Unknown/(_acting_) Kuzuki Souichirou

Rider: Medusa - Sakura Matou/ Shinji Matou

Berserker: Heracles/ Hercules- Illyasviel von Einzbern (daughter of Kiritsugu Emiya and Irisviel von Einzbern)

Assassin: "Sasaki Kojirou"/ Nameless Samurai – Medea (Master!Caster)

True Assassin: Hassan-i-Sabah - Zouken Matou


	43. States of Secrecy, HP&Torchwood

**States of Secrecy **

XandyNZ**: **Harry/Torchwood crossover prompt:

IDK, the Weasley's Muggle-ish second cousin, the 'accountant' is actually the 'civil servant' Ianto Jones? IDK, maybe Ianto actually knows so much because he's got all these magical gadgets/abilities to help him out? And then in Season 3, the BubbleHead Charm makes a re-appearance... *weepy puppy eyes*

0o0o0

What has to be understood, right off, is that it _doesn't_ matter how secret a society or agency is or is _supposed_ to be – in nearly every single muggle intelligence and information network world-wide is a witch or wizard. It could be anyone, from the janitor to an agent to the second in command; or even the head of the department themselves.

They diligently watch the people who are supposed to be watching, and it's their job to make sure no one ever finds out the secret they keep, not merely that the world has magic in it, or that there are a few people who can use that magic – no, the secret that they are to keep is to ensure that it never gets out that there is any significant portion of the world- wide population that not only can use magic – but do in their everyday lives.

Muggleborns most often take up this job, for they have a way of _fitting_ into the world in which they were raised that no pure-blood can mimic fully. A pureblood has more of a chance of slipping up, or of not being trusted by those he is supposed to keep watch of. What is usually _expected_ of a muggleborn, is often times thought to be a disgrace to the purebloods. It's another of those prejudices, but one not without its truths.

Ianto had had to make a choice, his pureblood Prewett family, where he wasn't truly wanted or needed, or a job at Ministry of Magic as an Unspeakable. For both muggle and magical folk it was supposed to be a mystery how they kept apart, so such a job fell into the Department of Mysteries.

Ianto did it, taking up the last name Jones with a glad heart. He joined Torchwood, and met a muggle, Lisa Hallett – and that was when everything became complicated. He fell in love. And, worse, he tried to save her. It had nearly torn the Torchwood that he was a part of remaking apart.

There was no keeping it a secret after that, it had to be reported to the Ministry of Magic ...that in Ianto working among muggles, he had fallen in love, and she had died. He was told to take four weeks off. In those weeks he told his family he was a civil servant, like an accountant, or a stockbroker in the muggle world, he was a Unspeakable, he couldn't tell them the truth about Torchwood.

His sister, Rhiannon told him she was ashamed of him, that he wasn't a Prewett, she didn't want to see him around her children or husband. He'd said _fine, that's fine, I'm Ianto Jones; _he hadn't said goodbye when the Unspeakable's had sent him back to work.

A part of him wanted to die, what _use_ was he? Torchwood gave him something to do with his life; that was true, he saw things most wizards and witches couldn't dream up, for beyond the Earth there was so much more – and that was what it was all about; the Rift, time and space and all the stuff they tried to put right. What Torchwood didn't look for and never found, was real magic – no, what they looked for was the stuff of Tosh's wet dreams. Mostly they found it too. Yet they weren't a threat to wizards and witches or magic, if anything they protected it along with all the rest of the people they could.

It took time, but he found his footing among the crew, he wasn't a _tea boy_ like Owen accused. He cleans up after them, because they won't and he's used to things blowing up or worse with potions and messes (and he was never so grateful for his second cousins Molly's spells more than when he found out how hard it was to clean up in the _ordinary_ way). He gets them to where they _need_ to be – and if he enjoys research it's for what he learns, not because he's very bookish as Gwen accuses playfully.

Ianto learns what it's like to have a job, to have friends, and…and a family that cares about him, not because he's a wizard, or a pureblood, but because he's a part of their team. He's one of them, one of their own. They are like a family, because family is supposed to watch out for each other, protect each other.

He heals. Ianto watches Gwen with her husband Rys, and when Jack accuses him of staring and stalking, what he says is simple and true.

"I _want_ that." Jack blinks, as if surprised at the ache he hears in Ianto's tone.

"Why don't you go out and date, than?" Jack doesn't miss much, so he couldn't have missed that Ianto spends nearly all his time at Torchwood, even if they don't talk about it.

"Who would I date?" Ianto asks, scathingly.

"Me." Jack smiles, wide, and Ianto knows he isn't being made fun of, but he walks away. He doesn't know what to say.

Jack leaves them, and they don't really know _why_ – there's that sound, blaring and like gravel, and than Jack was gone. He might come back – he might not, but why he went in the first place, why he left what he built of Torchwood to go chasing after some sound (the footage they have, of Jack running into a blue police phone booth, and it disappearing, is stranger than any magic Ianto knows) …the team doesn't know. Ianto does, or he thinks, that it's because he didn't say _yes_ or _no_, he just…walked away. He blames himself for Jack doing much the same thing.

So when Jack comes back – Ianto Jones doesn't hesitate to say _yes_ to a proper date.

It was that little blue police phone box he should have kept in mind, for it saves them all in the end. In it is the Doctor, a living and breathing legend out of the memories of the magical world; those memories run deep, Ianto calls this man _sire_, even as all the others hear him say _sir, _because this Doctor is a Time Lord of Gallifrey, and wizards and witches might one day become them – or might have been like the Time Lord's once, the Doctor doesn't ever just say. What the Doctor does is only keeps watch on Earth, on humans, and on wizards and witches, and he saves them. When they need saving, when they don't, and even when they don't think they do.

It surprises the Doctor to see Ianto there, risking his life beside Torchwood and muggles, but he smiles and seems to approve.

It's why, when MI5 succeeds in attacking Torchwood, Ianto Jones asks his sister to keep a eye out on the government, and it goes without saying he means both muggle and magical. It's Ianto who takes them to the Thames House,thirteenth floor, the tank of the 456 Ambassador. He doesn't tell Jack how he knows, and Jack doesn't ask, assumes it's only that Ianto's good at what he does – and he is – but he is more.

It's why when the 456 Ambassador tries to poison him, he fails, for Ianto Jones is a wizard, and a damned good one, and he knows _ebublio _spell, called the Bubble-Head Charm. It saves him, even as he has to watch Jack Harkness die again, and he wonders as he holds him, just how many times he will have to watch him die and come back. It's a magic, or something, he hopes never stops, and never fails.

Gwen finds them, and when she asks _how_, Ianto says he'll tell when Jack wakes up. He does just that, he tells them, his team, his family, because in the end all they have is each other.


	44. However Improbable, HP&Sherlock

**However Improbable**

XandyNZ

Harry Potter/Sherlock(BBC) crossover prompt;

"I sort of had the idea **_that John was related to someone in the HP world (maybe Hermione?_** Because she's pretty smart herself) who came to visit at 221B (maybe during the 7th book or something, before they go on the run, you know, the part after they escape the wedding into Muggle London, and need somewhere to stay), **_and Sherlock just deduces everything about their situation, and that there is still a magical world, and then maybe he decides to help them,_ **because he really wants to do experiments on all the magical things or something, and he can't do that if there's a magical civil war going on... or maybe one where **_John was a childhood friend of Severus Snape and Lily Evans while growing up, and then he meets Harry_**or something (maybe after the 7th book, where he goes to the funeral or something? Or bumps into the Golden Trio sometime, and immediately recognizes Harry as Lily's son from the eyes, or some other similar characteristic (because there's so much emphasis on how much Harry's got Lily's eyes, I think it'd be nice if John, knowing his friends so well, would be able to pick up other similarities - maybe they have the same temper, the same way of speaking? etc.)

You suggested that after Hermione makes her parents forget about her in the 7th book, the rest of her relatives (read: the Holmes) go to find her."

AN: …yeah, what is bolded and italicized is pretty much where I think this came from in the prompt. Opps?

0o0o0

Everyone lies, some lies are harmless, called _little white lies_ and some lies…some lies could cause the very world as we know it to end. John Watson knew a few of those lies, and had told some by admission.

There are things about John Watson that Sherlock Holmes doesn't know; simply for his own safety.

Sherlock deduces that John carries himself like he's military- he's tan, he went to Afghanistan (or Iraq when it was_ and Iraq_); even that he's trained in St. Bartholomew's Hospital. It's all quite logically brilliant, and for the most part Sherlock Holmes is correct. But, as Sherlock himself says – there is always _something_.

What that something is, is this; John Watson went to Hogwarts, that he had N.E.W.T.s of a grade E in the subjects of Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts. He had both St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries and the Ministry of Magic clamoring for him to be a Healer - or an Auror. His 'training' in St. Bartholomew's Hospital had more to do with blending in with doctors and nurses than any 'modern' medical learning – because John Watson had chosen to become both a Auror and a Healer.

John had been further jointly trained under Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody and Madam Poppy Pomfrey – he went on assignment in Afghanistan in an attempt to find the golden fleece of Jason. It's forgotten by muggles, but by wizards and witches it said to be stolen back by the witch Medea as she fled the Corinthians, later inherited by her son Medus, the half brother of Theseus, who traveled with his mother to Colchis and came to rule there.

That Medus or his mother Medea had made pact with a people of the land than called Aria; what called Ecbatana their city; the people had been called the Medes thereafter, their land had been Media. John Watson and his Auror team had brought it back, and it was kept locked away in the Department of Mysteries – for whatever good it did there, it might just have done better to stay where it had been kept.

That was not to say he had not fought, he had, and had the muggle star-burst scar upon his shoulder to prove it. Wizards and witches weren't meant to fight the muggle way, just as muggles could not fight with magic. It did something to them. It was why he had a psychosomatic limp and the intermittent tremor in his wand hand. It was why he was now a _retired_ Auror, those nightmares; he couldn't get rid of them. It was why he was bitter enough to admit it.

"Nothing ever happens to me." He'd been away, and hadn't been able to do anything for Lily when the Dark Lord had found out the secret keeper, Sirius Black. It wasn't until Clara Granger called him from the Ministry of Magic that he realized something had happened; was still _happening_. Harry Potter named for John's own older sister Harriet – Clara's wife – was missing. John had to find him – and he knew the place to start looking. He put aside his gun and picked up his wand, deciding he'd best not leave his flat without it.

"Sherlock, I'm going out for a bit." Sherlock spared him not so much as a glance as he fussed with beakers and what looked like bits of colored paper. He waved absently, as John opened the door, stepped past the door, and disappeared with the pop of displaced air.

Sherlock paused and frowned toward the closed door, going to open it. He narrowed his eyes not to see any sign of John Watson.

0o0o0

Apparition at Spinner's End, childhood home of Severus Snape, perhaps should have been done with more caution. As it was, John Watson found himself at wand point when he opened his eyes. His hand clenched about his own wand, but he would not raise it yet against one of his oldest friends – no matter what Clara had said about him having the Dark Mark. There had to be good reason for it, and John would hear Severus out before he passed judgment.

"Hello, Severus." He kept his tone calm, and Severus's dark eyes widened in surprise. He put away his wand with more haste than any kind of style.

"John." Severus greeted him soft and surprised; he didn't look as if he'd been taking care of himself.

"Your wrist, Severus…." John looked to his friend's hands, and Severus swallowed and looked aside.

"Clara is not wrong, John. I took the Dark Mark." John took his friend's hands, looking to each one, hissing as he caught sight of the black mar against Severus's pale skin. They looked wrong there, like bruises.

"_Why_?" John demanded, he had been an Auror – Severus had to know how this looked, it looked like betrayal. John had almost not come, simply for what Severus had done.

"Lily chose…chose James, and I, I had no one John – you were off, and I was so angry, I…did it to spite our friendship, for it seemed to me I was alone. I am so sorry John. I've tried to make it right, I spied for Albus Dumbledore – joined the Order of the Phoenix, like you – like Lily…please believe me." Severus had never looked so earnest, so honest – so painfully young. John closed his eyes, pained.

"What of Harry, Lily's boy?" Severus glanced to the grounds of Spinner's End, not far from this very house, Severus had played with Lily and Harriet and Clara and John. They had been the best of friends – and what had happened to them? They had grown up, grown apart.

"He's safe John, Albus assures me of it. He's living now with Petunia." John hissed in surprise. Severus had never known Lily's sister, he likely thought her baby safe in the care of his mother's family – but Severus had never seen Petunia save for a handful of times.

"He's _my godson_, Severus." John couldn't help being pained with it – why had no one gotten word to him? Being the boy's godfather, he had the right to take him in, to raise him.

"So he is, John – so he is. What would you have me do?" Severus stood so near him, but did not meet his eyes.

"I'm responsible for him, Severus. I need to find him." It was the truth, and John couldn't help but try to do the right thing. Everything else had gone so…wrong.

"Than what, John…will you take care of a baby? Take him form the only blood family he's got left?" Blood meant something to wizards and witches, pureblood or muggleborn. It would not earn John any favor if he claimed the Boy Who Lived as his own.

"If I must…Petunia must know that she has that option, Severus – it is not fair to thrust the responsibility of raising a wizard onto a muggle, or anybody." John knew it, because Harriet had had to grow up to raise him, and she had resented it, but done it to keep the family together. He didn't want Harry Potter to be raised like that. He wanted his godson to be raised knowing he was loved, and wanted.

"What, do you think she does not want him?" Severus asked, frowning in confusion.

"That is exactly what I think." John confessed, and Severus looked horrified.

"I do not know where they are, John…where do we even begin looking?" John tilted his head with a small smile. A wizard navigating the muggle world would be lost; it was simply a different world, just as a muggleborn had a hard time of it in the magical world. It was the greatest protection Harry Potter had, that wizards looking for him would not know how to begin looking – but John knew one of the cleverest of muggles.

"We will start by asking Sherlock Holmes." John stated, at Severus's frown, he smiled.

"He's my flat mate."

0o0o0

There isn't really a good way to ask your flat mate to find a baby for you. So, John just tries his best.

"Sherlock…if I wanted you to find someone for me, would you?" Sherlock pauses in tuning his violin, tilting his head as he quietly regards John Watson. John doesn't look away, even though he knows he could quickly break that studying stare. A part of him wonders if Sherlock knows all he has tried to keep from – for surely he suspects.

"The way you left yesterday, to go out so quickly – I suppose it was a partly successful meeting. You've been looking for someone since you got that call from your sister's wife. It's personal, so you didn't think I would be of much help. Yet, there is something you've been keeping from me." Sherlock's fingers curl against the violin cords, the distance in his tone makes it plain he feels hurt by what he perceives as John's distance.

Not that Sherlock expects John to pick up the subtle clues. Yet he's surprised, John might not notice _things_ like Sherlock, but he has fought in wars and healed people from sicknesses. Judging people is something John is very, very good at.

"Yes, there is." John doesn't bother to hide that truth; neither does he yet confess it. It is something very, very puzzling, and personal.

"Will you help me, now?" Sherlock knows that John isn't going to be giving him answers like _why_ or _who_ – and Sherlock is fine with that, he almost prefers it.

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock asks in turn.

"With my life..." Sherlock notices that John is the sort of man who does not much value his own life, but it is enough – because Sherlock prizes John's life and budding partnership.

"You will have to give me at least part of the name of who you are looking for." Sherlock states and John puts his lips together and nods firmly.

"When I knew her almost thirteen years ago, her name was Petunia Evans. I think she's married, might have a child of her own – but she has a nephew who I don't believe she should be guardian of." John meets Sherlock's eyes, and Sherlock nods once, very surely.

"I will look into her." John takes Sherlock at his word, for he gets up and goes, leaving Sherlock alone to do what he does best – find people, solve puzzles – and there is one thing Sherlock is sure of, whoever John went to meet yesterday he goes to meet again today. John is gone from the staircase without taking more than a step out from behind a closed door; there is no sound of footsteps upon the stair, no familiar tread of feet in the hallway.

John Watson isn't anywhere in the building, Sherlock knows, because he looked yesterday. This too, is a mystery that Sherlock seeks to answer, and maybe in solving one, he will find a clue to the other.

0o0o0

"4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey." Sherlock tells John, as he steps through the door – as if afraid that John will disappear for good without Sherlock saying _something_. It's silly but not an altogether unreasonable theory with what Sherlock has been observing. It can't all be faked, or explained, it's real he's sure, for John wouldn't go this far for a prank.

"Hello and good evening to you too..." John sounds confused, but smiles when Sherlock looks up to judge his expression at Sherlock's answer.

"So what's this about Surrey?" John asks when it is clear Sherlock won't say anything more unless prompted to.

"4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey is where that Petunia Evans is living, Mrs. Dursley, I should say now. She lives with her husband Mr. Vernon Dursley and a son, Dudley – you're information about the nephew is not incorrect, he was enrolled in nursery school and there have been reports of strange bruises and scrapes upon the boy, one Harry Potter - brushed under the rug for a not insignificant sum of money." Sherlock is very curious as to just what John will do hearing this, and he is not disappointed.

John is pale and sickly looking with shock, as if he's been punched in the gut, and he turns quickly to the door – and is gone, just as the times before. He did not go down the stairs, did not go down the hall, and did leave by the door of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes is almost entirely sure – but he must be positive, it is his sanity he risks.

0o0o0

John Watson comes back to 221B Baker Street the ordinary way, walking through the door, up the stairs, in the hall and opening the door to their apartment. This is largely due, Sherlock does not doubt, due to the two year old toddler napping in John's arms. It is a sight that Sherlock does not know what to make of – he never thought to see it. When Sherlock thought of the future at all, it was only of John with Sherlock in this flat, solving the great games.

Now there was this – a baby.

"Are you going to keeping him?" Sherlock asks, just to be sure, because there is always something.

"He's my godson, Sherlock. Yes, I'll keep him – do you have a problem with that?" John's eyes narrow upon Sherlock sprawled on the couch, watching the pair, man and baby, with an arm flung over his face.

"No, he's the only family of yours I've met. I'm honored to meet a member of your family, John – he's the first I've seen, do you know how odd that is? I thought it was my oddity, my influence, but it's not that is it? It's something else, something I think I've worked out." Sherlock trails off, as a toddler's sleepy green eyes open to see him. He tries to smile, and those eyes gleam with more than the usual intelligence, and he's smiled back at most charmingly.

"Oh?" John wonders, half humoring Sherlock as he lets down the now fussing godson. Who promptly makes his way in a waddling walk over to Sherlock, his hair is wild and black and doesn't look like it's ever been brushed. Sherlock lets himself be climbed up on.

"He's at the age of terrible-twos, isn't he? How appropriate it is that we meet, Mr. Potter." Sherlock is sure that John's godson is quite safe while using Sherlock as his perch, he kicks his legs cheerfully – and carefully, he does not kick Sherlock's side. It is a caution not learned, but taught – and not carefully, but harshly, and it isn't a curiosity to Sherlock that the boy chooses the highest place to sit, where he can see everything and everyone.

"Har'y." The boy's protest is a pout, and Sherlock nods thoughtfully.

"Harry, I think you and your godfather are very special. In fact, I think that there is something about you that is more than unique, isn't that right John?" Sherlock doesn't look to his flat mate, his friend, his partner. He hears John's sharply inhaled breath. John has been careful, almost too careful, but Sherlock both sees and observes.

"Magic." Sherlock Holmes says the word, and Harry Potter cringes as if he's been hurt from hearing that word.

"_Sherlock_!" John's voice rings out in warning, harsh and sharp. John has never spoken so to him, he has had 'the Captain' tone, someone who has known and dealt in power and authority, but never has John sounded as if he thinks Sherlock is a threat.

"Can't tell, have to be normal, hides it." Harry says softly, looking at Sherlock wide eyed.

"You don't have to anymore, I _know_. I won't let anyone hurt you. You're safe." Harry lays his head on Sherlock's chest hearing his heartbeat. Little green eyes peek up at John.

"Truth..." Harry blurts out, and Sherlock thinks Harry is bolder and braver than he is, for he hasn't dared look to John.

"You knew - how?" It's a sharp accusation coming form a man Sherlock thinks of as his friend.

"How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth…" There is always, Sherlock knows without saying, always _something_.

John ruffles Harry's hair, and shares a smile with Sherlock.


	45. Into The Lion's Den

**Into The Lion's Den**

FatesShadow83, Prompt: a first year (Neville Longbottom/ Harry Potter) finds out (by accident?) that the Sorting Hat is the entrance to Godric Gryffindor's 'secret room', password "Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin?"

(_It could be Time Travel…or a very good_ _Pensieve…)_

0o0o0

Neville Longbottom put the Sorting Hat upon his head. As the darkness closed out the sight of other students, he was almost grateful. This wasn't so very hard. First Years before him had only barely touched this hat before it spoke. Neville wondered how it was done, this test – was it controlled by the professors – the parents?

'_What's this, oh – you've got a very clever mind, hiding in plain sight! A pureblood too, I don't see that kind of subtlety every century_.' Hidden beneath the brim of the Sorting Hat, Neville's eyes went wide with shock.

'_You, my boy, will be a challenge_!' The Sorting Hat sounded delighted, and Neville was anything but. He felt the Sorting Hat slip down further, against the bridge of his nose.

'_You would do well in Slytherin_…' it wasn't praising him, Neville realized, but _testing_ him. This was one test he _had_ to pass. Neville shook his head, and the hat slid further down to rest against the rise of his lips.

'_Not Slytherin_!' Neville though in protest, but the Sorting Hat seemed pleased. His fingers clenched against the stool he sat upon.

'_Oh, truly? Hmmm, you purebloods are all so muddled; mixing the bloodlines was what Slytherin was against – but no one really understood that than_…'

'_Not Slytherin_!' Neville mouthed the words silently, urging the Sorting Hat to understand.

'_You are too cunning to go to Ravenclaw, do be reasonable_…' The Sorting Hat sounded as if it was trying to _convince_ him! Neville felt the Sorting Hat slip down to his chin, breathing in the musty leather cloth, he panicked and tried to pull it off, struggling to yank it away – it was going to smother him!

'_Not yet, not yet – why, you haven't even been sorted yet_!' The Sorting Hat _wasn't_ letting go.

Neville shouted in protest though only the Sorting Hat would hear, muffling his words to all the rest.

'_Oh, very well_…' The Sorting Hat sounded disappointed in him.

"Gryffindor!" Neville Longbottom went quickly to the Gryffindor table, not where he was supposed to be – but where he wanted to be, where he hoped he would be needed. He tried to put that sucking sensation that the Sorting Hat had given him, like slime upon his mind.

It was than; amongst laughter that Neville realized he was still wearing the Sorting Hat. Its amusement clung to him even as he gave it to the next boy, even as he wanted to fling the ratty old hat onto the stool, feeling cold and alone, but free.

He checked his pocket for Trevor, his toad, finding him warmly nestled there – yet he still felt as if he was missing something. It was a feeling he tried to forget while watching the rest of the sorting of First Years.

"Potter, Harry!" Professor McGonagall called out, and Neville could see she tried to keep her smiles to herself.

It became clear what he was missing out on - when Harry Potter put the Sorting Hat on his head, and was swallowed up, the Sorting Hat sitting innocently upon its stool – as if it hadn't done what the entire Great Hall had seen. No other First Year, having seen that, wanted to be sorted by the Sorting Hat.

"Sorting will commence tomorrow morning." Albus Dumbledore, with a frown upon his lips, took up the Sorting Hat and left the Great Hall. The unsorted First Years huddled together, wide eyed, in their black robes they looked like a flock of ravens.

"He'll get him back…" Hermione Ganger didn't sound so sure.

One thing was sure, however the First Years were sorted, none of them looked like they would trust to put on the Sorting Hat.

"Has this ever happened before?" Neville asked, shakily, remembering the sucking sensation, and the words of the Sorting Hat.

A red haired boy shook his head solemnly.

Neville didn't dare ask if anyone else had spoken to the Sorting Hat, he thought he had his answer without asking – Harry Potter had, but to the rest of them, the Sorting Hat was only a way to be sorted. It wasn't supposed to be anything else – but it was…and Neville _had_ to find out what.

Neville Longbottom had to go to the Headmaster's office. He swallowed nervously, and didn't let himself thing of his grandmother, what she would do or say, he ran his finger along Trevor's back for luck, and let the panic that had been rolling and boiling and building break.

"I thought I felt it sucking on my skull, did you….?" He asked of Hermione Ganger, who stared about them wide eyed and shook her head.

"S-sucking you up..?" Another boy, three seats away spoke up.

His words caught like wild fire, and for the first time during the sorting of First Years in the history of Hogwarts, there was a riot of panic.

Neville Longbottom wasn't particularly proud of that, but it was done for the greater good.

0o0o0

"Mr. Longbottom, the Headmaster will see you now." Professor McGonagall told him, patting him on the shoulder and speaking the password ("_Candy corn_.") to let him get into the Headmaster's office. Neville Longbottom stepped resolutely forward.

"Ah, Mr. Longbottom, I understand that after I left you caused something of a disturbance in the Great Hall?" Albus Dumbledore spoke from his desk, not looking up from where he studied the Sorting Hat upon it.

"Yes, sir – a riot…." Neville had never seen reason to lie, and he wouldn't start now – not when it was so important.

"Why was that?" The Headmaster asked, as if Neville had done it deliberately - which he had.

"I couldn't think of another way to get in here and see you." Neville admitted, for if he spoke the truth from the start – why start lying now? For all that he knew, the Headmaster had some sort of truth-or-lie device.

"Oh, did it occur to you to perhaps _ask_?" The Headmaster let nothing but curiosity color his words, not rebuke, but Neville knew it was there.

"It would not have gotten me in to see you soon enough." Neville admitted, unflinching.

"What is it, Mr. Longbottom that you think so important to tell me that you start a riot on your first day of being a First Year?" Neville met those blue eyes, and told the truth.

"The Sorting Hat, sir – it spoke to me before my sorting into Gryffindor." Heard aloud, Neville knew, it sounded no better than the mutterings of madness. He had heard more than his fair share of madness from his mother and father, and knew.

"And what did it say?" Neville knew now that he had the Headmaster's whole attention.

"It's not what it said, Headmaster – it's what it was trying to make me say. I think if I would have said "Not Slytherin" thrice, I would be where Harry Potter is." Dumbledore tapped his wand against the Sorting Hat as if to wake it.

"Where is Harry Potter, Sorting Hat?" The Headmaster demanded with a frown. It was clearly a question he had been asking more than once, and often.

"_Not here, Albus_." The Sorting Hat, speaking aloud, was somehow more menacing than speaking within his mind. It was an answer that Albus Dumbledore had been getting for as long a time as he had been asking _where_.

"Your pardon, Headmaster, that's the wrong question." Neville didn't dare look the Headmaster in the eyes as he approached to put his hand upon the Sorting Hat.

"_Hello there, Neville Longbottom_…" Where the Sorting Hat had sounded long suffering when dealing with the Headmaster, it sounded downright delighted at the touch of the First Year it had sorted.

"You were testing me before." Neville had guessed, and the Sorting Hat grinned, gapping and black.

"_Quite right and you still may pass_." The Sorting Hat admitted, hopeful.

"Whose voice do you have?" Neville asked, knowing he had to make the Headmaster see.

"_Why, Godric Gryffindor my boy_." Neville looked up to see the Headmaster, frowning and sitting very still. It was a question that Albus Dumbledore had never asked – and likely would not have gotten an answer if he had.

"It isn't where Harry Potter is, is it? It's when…" Neville trailed off, for the Sorting Hat laughed, the split of his grin turning into a ripping smile.

"_Oh, yes, yes, when – not where, when, you too can pass…speak up, boy- you know the words_!" The Sorting Hat winked up at him. Neville fondly patted it.

"There is no way to get Harry Potter back to this time and place, is there?" Neville asked, knowing it was true.

"_Quite right, this is only a one way pass_." Harry Potter would come back when – and if – he wanted to. Neville felt a longing in him, the Sorting Hat had sorted every wizard and witch that went though Hogwarts, so he knew, there had to be a reason that Harry Potter and Neville had had this chance – but no others had. It was because they did not quite fit – Neville knew, he had learned that while painfully growing up, sometimes literally in pain.

"Why can I not get Harry Potter back – or go through?" Albus Dumbledore demanded, his wand clenched in the grip of his fingers.

"_You are not of_ _Godric Gryffindor's kin, you do not need him." _Neville closed his eyes, so Albus would not guess what he would do.

"I do." Neville told the Sorting Hat with the voice of Godric Gryffindor – told too the Headmaster. He took the hat up, ratty and flighty, and put it upon his head. Thinking a thing is yet quicker than magic or any action. There was no way that he could be stopped.

'_Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin_!' The thoughts full of pain and longing.

Neville Longbottom was swallowed, was swimming in the dark – and he opened his eyes only when he heard words – the Sorting Hat's voice, familiar, but warm and human in a way the Sorting Hat could not be.

"Hello there." Godric Gryffindor stood in front of him, with Harry Potter smiling at his side.

This was home, this was their Hogwarts.

0o0o0

_AN: Okay, **I need prompts now** or this won't be updated anymore –so now it's your turn, you need to review with your prompts: it can be a continuation of one of the ones you've read, or something utterly new – one rule: in order to be posted in a chapter of '_It's Not A Rabbit Hat'_ it needs to have Harry Potter in it in some way._


	46. The Lady, HP&Naruto

**The Lady**

May Eve

Prompt:

HP/Naruto trio reincarnation fic.

(_It just so happens that I was reading "Sunfall" by C. J. Cherryh and the last short story dealing with the dying sun and Earth's cities and people was called "The General" it deals with reincarnation in four lives; Yilan Baba-Shimshek-Gunesh-Boga; _

_Yilan Baba being Sargon, Menes, Hammurabi, Gilgamesh, Achilles, Cyrus the Persian, Alexander, Hannibal, Germaniucus, Arthur, Attila, Charlemagne, William, Saladin, Genghis._

_Shimshek being Enkindu, Patroclus, Hephestion, Anthony, Lancelot, Roland, Hasdrubal._

_Gunesh – Roxana, Cleopatra, Guenevere, Helen. _

_Boga – Mordred, Agamemnon, Xerxes, Bessus, Lawrence._

_It talks too, of Montmorency and Dustan and Kuwei; Arslan and Kemal…there are names here that I know, and some I do not, but I knew enough to take a breath and want – so often Sakura Haruno is overlooked, so I took this prompt and ran with it_.)

0o0o0

Naruto had his _Kage Bunshin no Jutsu_and Sasuke had his _Sharingan, _and Sakura, what had she?What made her worthy as a kunoichi of Konohagakure? What would set her apart, what made her special? She didn't know, and that…that made her both sad – and angry. She felt helpless and selfish, relying upon others to help her; she didn't feel as if she did her part. Yet she didn't know what she should do, what she could do – where did her skills lay?

She had goals, and she couldn't reach them.

Not as she was. She had to change. She just…didn't know _how_.

Not until Tsunade took her in and began to train her did she feel she was doing something right, something worthy, because if she wasn't on par with the fighting skills, at least she could do this- could heal – could help to clean up the mess and put people who had broken themselves or been broken back together. It was when she did this that Sakura realized that she too was broken, that that she was severed in two – there was who she tried to appear to be, and there who she really was – the self she had severed.

To heal others, she had to be whole herself.

She dreamed that night of castles, of spells, of books and more books, of sand running out of an hour glass. And she stood side by side with a boy bespectacled and black haired and one red haired and freckled.

She woke sweating, shaking, and with a strange word upon the tip of her tongue and meeting her ears before it could be forgotten.

"Witch" was the word.

Sakura Harunohad to know what that word was, what it really _meant_ – so she turned to research, and that felt that doing so was right and familiar to herself. She'd always known how to go about finding out things, even when she felt she knew nothing of a subject. Sakura had always had a feeling while studying, that she wasn't looking at the _right_ book.

This time she had a word, one word, to start with. It was a seed that took root in her mind and grew; grew great and golden and glorious, so much larger than she was that she could not see beyond that one word. That word that was what she was.

"What are you looking for?" Naruto asked out of the blue one day, as he sat perched upon a table watching her browse so many books of history that she felt she would never read them all – not, at least, in this life.

He startled her, for she hadn't thought he was there. He saw it.

"How long have you been there, watching me?" Naruto grinned, the lines upon his cheeks giving his features a fox's mischief.

"I'm never far from my friends." Naruto winked as he went, choosing the second-story window rather than the door. Sakura frowned after him, her eye catching the title that he had been sitting next to, as if he'd been hiding it… or was now showing it.

"_Lost History: A Study of Magic_" was the title, and she picked it up smiling as if at an old friend. She took it home, and it seemed that every word she read for the first time she had written down and forgotten that every turn of the page was a memory peeking out. It told of strange and fantastic things and beings, magic which witches and wizards used by wand waving and words was not the chakra of theshinobi's jutsu.

It was like nothing she'd ever read of, nothing she'd ever heard of either.

She remembered what Kakashi had remarked upon so long ago, her remarkable control of chakra – and Tsunade's claim of the same; for she could not have trained her to be a medic-nin otherwise. For the first time, she wondered why she had that skill – how she had it when only a handful of others did. All others had struggled to gain that control, and studied for it, but Sakura had it as a natural innate talent for it – like…like magic.

The art of magic with its ancient words and wand waving had died out with them – those few who carried a "pure bloodline"; because everyone had chakra, and anyone trained might use it. Such was not so with magic, only those born with magic could put it to use; they had to train with waving a wand and practice archaic words for spells. It was a simple truth, that when two competing talents we're given to the individual; the ability that was more widely accepted usually won out as the skill they practiced. It was a choice few ever realized they had made. Sakura could see that that was what had happened between now and then. Once there had been schools for young wizards and witches. There were no such schools now.

Those buildings were but ruins now, a bit of curious history. Magic was there, or it was not; no one was wondering if there might be wizards and witches now, walking about untrained and unknowing of the magic they possessed by blood.

Yet_ "Lost History: A Study of Magic"_ gave Sakura hope, that was lost wasn't truly lost forever, in it was a chapter about a magic and memory. Things called Pensieves and how they worked, small hints that made her think in ways she never had before.

Sakura pressed her lips into a thin line, and wondered if her dreams were truly dreams and not memories. It might end up being but a silly fancy, but no one had to know – and she would not be laughed at if they never did and this was a mistake she now made.

The memories of wizards and witches were not like those of ordinary people; magic kept those memories and thoughts, tied them to the soul, all the memories of the life that they lived, and all memories of the lives they had lived _before_ being born. Their souls were as immortal as any other; but they kept all the memories, rebirth and afterlife did not wipe them clean, death and life did not put such memories out of reach.

If she was a witch it would be a simple thing to prove, all she had to do was remember that incarnation; and have a place, a Pensieve to put that memory of the life she had lived before this one. She could see all of the memories of that life, if what was written in this book was right and true.

Sakura didn't think she had anything to lose, and so closed her eyes with focus, and thought of her dreams and put her fingers to her forehead. There was a pressure seeping out, a weight teasing to her fingertips, which went away with her fingers, and when she opened her eyes what she saw made her gasp - threads, entwined and braided, mercury silver and hazy with eerie mist. They wove together, a tapestry of memories.

It was only after she stared at it that Sakura realized she had no place to put the memory, no Pensieve. Yet she couldn't put it back – this might be her only chance. She cupped her hands together and cradled the memories there, closed her eyes again and brought her hands and the memories within them to her face, letting the warmth of them wash over her.

Sakura saw memories, she drank down lives.

0o0o0

Sakura Haruno opened her eyes; they were blue and wide, ringed with brown. She had seen more than she could ever say – and never, she knew, would she have the words to say and explain. There was simply more than this life to her, more than Sakura Haruno – more than Hermione Ganger. She had not expected that she had lived so many lives, lived so much history.

There were tears on her cheeks, and her heart hurt. She knew, at last, who she was – who she had been, and what she had to do – was live and love.

"It's not easy, is it?" Naruto eyed her cautiously; he squatted at the window ledge, watching her with wary eyes.

Sakura wondered how long he had known, and why she had never seen it.

"It never is, as you well know." She smiled and offered her hands for him to take, and he came quickly – eagerly – to her side, smiling warmly.

"We'll be alright, now that you remember." Naruto was so confident in his words – he, no matter his name, had always been so stubborn. Sakura was not so sure. Yet they had to try. Living hurt, but trying kept them alive. Life was not so simple as to live and let live, it never had been – not for them.

By _we_, Sakura knew Naruto meant more than just he and she – he meant _him, them – _Sasuke, he's great friend – that had been an almost sure thing, throughout all their lives over centuries. It hadn't been changed – except now, in this life – it scared her, what Sasuke had become, her dear friend, who had been a lover to her, in more than one life – who she loved still_. _Always Sakura had loved both Naruto and Sasuke, that at times she called one friend and one lover, well, sometimes that made no difference.

But it might, just might, have made all the difference in this one life, where Sasuke was in such great danger, meddling with powers greater than his reach – and alone.

"He's been so badly hurt, all his life; he's not let himself know…us, nor remember anything but _that_ tragedy." That hurt her deeply, and hurt Naruto as much – if not more – she knew, even as he flinched and looked aside. They should have been great friends, and Sasuke should have loved her, but he'd kept himself to himself – and they'd showed up in his life too late to make him change his mind. He had become who he was without knowing them.

They could still save him; Sakura had to believe that – because Naruto did so strongly. He'd shown that, over and over, proving it in everything. There was a part of him that could never _not_ trust Sasuke, that would be loyal to them even at his own undoing.

"He is so full of hate, he is afraid to – afraid of how much we mean to him, of hurting us…you know how often he's said he wants to kill me." Ruefully he said it, as if he thought he deserved it, at that thought she shook her head in denial.

"Naruto, I know you love me – and as you love me, he loves you, loves us, in your heart of hearts, believe that! You remember it, don't you?" Sakura searched his eyes, blue and gentle. There were times when Naruto showed such naivety, and others when he seemed wiser than them all; all this time, she wondered… had Naruto been hiding and hurting for them?

Sakura remembered hurting him herself, because she didn't understand…anything, of who he was, who she was, or her feelings that peeked out from lives she had lived and hadn't remembered until now – but he had… he had…

"I haven't remembered it like you Sakura, I…it comes and goes, like a fog or smoke, sometimes….sometimes I think it's all in my head." Sakura knew that if she ever denied her lives, her memories of him – them – that it would hurt Naruto more deeply than in this life alone. So much between the three of them hung upon this life, it had always been a risk with every life they lived – but not as great as this. What had changed, what had been lost, was magic.

It, she knew, had to be found again, had to be used; to loose magic in the world meant a death – not only for them, but a kind of death of everything. They would be as lost as she had felt; skilled, but not whole, directionless.

"You aren't alone, Naruto – not anymore, not with me – and will prove the truth of our memories to Sasuke, somehow." Sakura put her head against his, resting against his strength.

Naruto could be as great as Sasuke was now terrible; Naruto could be the Hokage (so too, she knew, could she be!) but above all what they had to be was together. Only with each other could they live their lives fully healthy; only with each other could they find magic.

It was their purpose life after life, to keep magic alive and kindled. They could not fail.

"How?" Naruto asked of her, soft and desperate and so very willing to believe in her.

His faith made her smile.

"We show him it. That for all his skill as a shinobi, he's no wizard without us; he'll know magic when he sees it." Naruto nodded slowly, agreeing, his smile as bright and enlightening as any sunny day.

Sakura never again wanted to see him frown.

So she would find Sasuke and put him (them) back together again.

0o0o0

Divining is easier than dreaming, but a bit harder than believing; the real trick to doing magic, to keep doing it and to grow up, is to not doubt – to never doubt, but to believe. That's way wizards and witches must be taught at a young age, because they can believe so easily. Once, there had been words and wands and enchantments, curses, transfigurations, and potions. In face of that kind of magic, Sakura knew that in lives previous she had scorned divination as a fortune teller's trick rather than any kind of seer's truth for prophesy. So there is a certain kind of sour irony that divining where Sasuke is will save her, save them.

Naruto watches her do it, as if studying.

Sakura does not think Sasuke will ever come willingly to them; and they can not risk tracking him down and the possibility of attacking in retaliation. So, the thing is, with divining they will know where he will go, and he can not avoid them then.

"Found him?" Naruto asks hopefully when Sakura opens her eyes.

"You better believe it." She kisses Naruto on a whiskered cheek and whispers to him of her visions.

0o0o0

When Sasuke comes into the diner of a small village north of the border, Sakura is waiting for him at a booth in the middle of the far wall. He doesn't see her until she wants him to. By the time he does, it's too late to get out. His dark eyes are wide with shock to see her sitting there waiting for him with a small smile on her lips.

She stands to greet him as Naruto locks the only door in or out behind him.

"Sit." Sakura waves his seat to him; it scrapes across the floor to settle behind his knees. Taken off balance, he sits abruptly.

"What are you doing here, Sakura?" For all that he is addressing her with words; he has eyes only for Naruto – who very carefully doesn't look back.

"Well, obviously this is all about you Sasuke. You brought us here. Naruto and I, well, we just can't get enough of you. Hard to believe, I know, even after all this time, but, well, what can I say? Love knows no reason." Sasuke frowns at her, eyes narrowed.

"What's wrong with you?" Sasuke knew Sakura Haruno, or thought he had. This…this wasn't like her.

"What's wrong with me? Me? Really, Sasuke? What's wrong is that you're breaking my heart – and, okay, I admit this isn't the first time you've done that to me. But what I can't forgive? You're hurting _him_." Sasuke saw the book she had put in the table in front of her that her fingers tapped an agitated rhythm on. Her eyes went to Naruto, who stood still and silent. It wasn't like Naruto either.

Something very strange was happening, because Sasuke couldn't stand, couldn't so much as twitch a muscle, and sure as hell couldn't speak now. Sakura's smile told him he wouldn't be able to until she was finished.

"That isn't forgivable Sasuke." Sasuke got a good look at what she wore, a hood of red.

"You know a lot of things, just like us, but you don't know how you know them, do you? We do. Naruto and I remember what we were, what, in fact we are. You used to be our best friend, your name used to be Harry Potter. Mine was Hermione, and Naruto? Ron, but that's only three names, only one pervious life we've lived, the thing about the three of us? We keep coming back, over and over and over." Sakura sounded tired, as if she had had to live those lives again to remember them.

"So this time Sasuke, you have the choice to make – join us, let us _help_ you, or do not – and you get what you think you want." Sakura passed Sasuke as she headed for the door, patting his shoulder as she went. Sasuke heard the lock turn and heard them leave side by side, but his eyes were on the book Sakura had left behind.

_"Lost History: A Study of Magic"_ H**.** J. Granger.

Sasuke had never seen that book before, but he knew what name those initials hid: Hermione Jean Granger, his Sakura.

He picked it up, and for once, followed.


	47. Egg of Nemesis, HP&Anita Blake

**Egg of Nemesis**

CryKing

Anita Blake/HP Prompt

Pairing : Wicked/Harry/Truth

Harry is a descendant of Belle-Morte and possesses the Ardeur. For whatever reason (to help his Ancestress, to find someone...), he ends up going to St-Louis (with his own vampires and weres of course).  
I want to see Harry using the Ardeur and being the sweet Death that all the wielders of the Ardeur are (because I want to see a seductive, manipulative, deadly Harry).

-It seems that everyone in the ABVH verse thinks that Belle-Morte developed the Ardeur only because she became a vampire and that it was restricted to vampires of her line. But I think they forget that she was once human. What tells us that the Ardeur is not simply a power that she had while alive and that she kept after being turned  
-And, if she had it while alive, wouldn't it be possible for the Ardeur to be a family trait, albeit very rare

-their family would make a magically binding non-aggression pact because I don't want to imagine multiple users of the Ardeur fighting against each other.

Belle as "Sleeping Beauty" and Harry as "Snow White".

0o0o0

_Paris__, France_

"My lady." Apolline Delacour knew well to speak softly and keep her eyes low while entering the lady's chambers. For the news she brought would not please Belle Morte. Belle stirred from her bed and the men within it, turning to regard her with honey gold eyes like Apolline's own. They brightened at the sight of Apolline, who was glad to see such a swift show of favoritism.

"Ah, child!" Belle opened her arms, and Apolline embraced her readily, kissing her swiftly on each cheek. She was warm to the touch, and Apolline knew her to be well fed as was Belle's right as sourdre de sang and queen of the veela.

"Rarely you come to my court, daughter. What brings you to me in such haste?" Apolline flushed prettily, and clung to Belle Morte as if to prevent her from anger.

"My lady, I have done as you asked and gone looking for lost ones of your line and lineage, tracing them had not been an easy task for us." It had not been Apolline Delacour's task alone to find the first ones, the lost ones, the children of Belle Morte before her turning. It had been a task she had inherited, passed mother to daughter since Belle Morte had given them charge of it.

"I know this daughter, but it is a worthy task, my family has spread so far." There was a satisfied smugness to Belle Morte's tone, at which Apolline bowed her head in agreement.

Vampires had not always been called vampires after all, and this none remembered better than Belle Morte and her comrades upon the Council. Once upon a time they had been the old ones, the old gods and goddesses.

To be a sourdre de sang, what they call now a "master" and to be a master means making; but it also means mothering in the fashion that Marmee Noir taught her dark daughters. It means to bed and breed children to take pride in. This is a thing most of the Vampire Council no longer follows, to keep a living family.

A living family line used to be a point of pride, for it used to be in the days of Marmee Noir that a vampire was born, not simply _made_. A sourdre de sang kept a eye upon their living family, for once in a while came about a worthy son or daughter who was to be the scion of the sourdre de sang, the heir and often groomed from birth to rule as sourdre de sang elsewhere.

That Belle Morte has a living family was a fact, but they are flung far indeed.

"I have found one uncounted, lady; he lives in England, witch-begotten." Belle Morte frowns at this, for it is an oddity – a veela may marry a wizard, but rarely do they have sons, and rarer yet that that those sons possess magic.

"His name?" Apolline shivers at her curious and cold tone. Belle Morte goes so still that she would think she was embraced by a sun warmed statue if not for the breath upon her neck.

"He is Harry Potter, called also the Boy Who Lived." Belle Morte lets her loose, fixing her honey gaze upon the half veela.

"Why?" Belle Morte asks, frowning thoughtfully.

"He survived Oliver's descendent, the snake-speaker named Tom Riddle." Belle Morte hisses her displeasure, that one of her line would cross paths with the Earthmover's alone, and without Belle knowing.

"His family…?" Apolline Delacour keeps her gaze fixed upon the bedding.

"He is all but an orphan, my lady. He is alone." Apolline knew he would not be now, not for long – not with Belle Morte now knowing what she had told her. Apolline closed her eyes, and thought of her daughters Fleur and Gabrielle whom Harry Potter had saved from death. This telling would save him in turn, she felt sure. He would be a powerful immortal, not merely the Boy Who Lived.

Belle Morte stood from her bed and at her door were two vampire warriors that had let Apolline pass without a word or gesture, now they came to attention.

"Find him, my Wicked Truth." They bowed as if one was merely a mirror of the other, dark and light, obeying, going so swiftly Apolline did not see them leave.

Belle Morte turned her gaze to the Paris sky. It was not the city Belle Morte loved.

It had been the man that this city had been named for.

0o0o0

"What did you say?" Harry Potter sits across from Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts and knows his life will never be the same, but he can't help but ask. He can't quite make sense of what is going on or what he is becoming, not quite yet. Minerva takes a breath and lets it go as if it pains her. Her eyes lower to her hands as she speaks.

"You've been named as a scion, Harry." Minerva's voice is soft, regretful. Harry clenches his teeth and tries to understand that this is hard for her, she knows more than she is saying – and she knows how he feels about that lack on his part.

His temper feels like fire, and he swallows it down. He doesn't want it to get him into trouble.

"I heard that, just…what does it mean?" Her eyes briefly meet his, and close as she speaks.

"It means you've been claimed by a sourdre de sang of the Vampire Council. You aren't an orphan. You are the scion of a sourdre de sang, of Belle Morte." Minerva's knuckles are white with her tension.

"How am I, a wizard, a scion of a vampire?" Harry demands of her. He can't help looking nervously back to the two silent men who stand like soldiers near the door. He feels trapped, and knows they might let him leave – but they would follow.

"If I may, Headmistress McGonagall…?" They look so much alike that Harry isn't sure which one spoke. Minerva presses her lips into a thin line as she nods.

"You are probably aware that there are very old ties among purebloods. Yet the reason families of wizards and witches actually call themselves _purebloods_ is because they are direct descendents of a powerful sourdre de sang vampire, such is what your connection with Belle Morte is, Mr. Potter. It is rarer these days for a sourdre de sang to claim a scion among their living kin, but Belle Morte well remembers urging the Vampire Council to form the Wizard Council so as to protect those bloodlines. You might say she shaped society as you know it here." He is blond and grey eyed, but his smile is chilling and wickedly superior.

"It is a rare gift to be wanted by a sourdre de sang; I suggest you take her up on it." Their eyes are the same grey, Harry sees; it makes him realize that beneath his dark hair and the start of a beard about his wide mouth they have very similar features. Harry has seen enough Weasley's to know relatives when he sees them.

"Who are you?" Harry asks them and the blonds' smile widens playfully.

"_Wicked._" His hiss is like a whisper, and Harry knows that Minerva hasn't heard it. It was inside his head.

"Truth." He frowns at Wicked knowingly.

"Those are not names." Harry states dryly.

"You live long enough and most people forget your name." Truth's smile is breakable, hurting. Minerva narrows her eyes upon them, and Harry realizes he is looking knowingly at his first vampires.

"Does Belle Morte know your names?" Harry knows they aren't used to being asked questions, that with asking he amuses them; Wicked nods, almost thoughtfully, as if he has to make an effort to remember such a thing.

"I haven't any choice, do I?" Harry clenches his hands upon his wand when Truth sakes his head. Wicked opens the door for him as he gets up, Harry doesn't look back as he follows.

0o0o0

At his first sight of her, Harry knows Belle Morte to be the most beautiful woman he has – or ever will – meet. It makes his breath catch in his throat; her dark hair falls in curling rings down her bare shoulders, she wares some sheer silk thing that he's never seen the like of before that clings and leaves little to his imagination it's knee-length, leaving her shin and toes bare. It's taunting and tantalizing.

She sees him, and her eyes ask if he likes what he sees.

Her smile is as sweet and warm as her honey gold eyes.

She winks, and the stunned enchantment, that sweeping all encompassing enthrallment, leaves him like a painful blow to the stomach. It's gone – Belle is beautiful – but beautiful in the way all women and men can be. What she had, what he saw, was a test. He's passed, and the passing was painful.

Harry wants it back, that feeling of power, that gift - that curse – of beauty. He wants to own it; it's his, a part of him that he never recognized until he saw her standing there showing it to him like a pair of shoes or dress she wanted his approval of.

"How?" Harry has to take a breath to ask, it comes out shakily, and she laughs. It's warm and dark like rich chocolate.

"I will show you." She whispers in his ear, a promise he learns she has every intention of keeping starting that very night. The power passes between the two of them, playing and enchanting her whole court, washing them in warmth and lust.

"Welcome home, Harry Potter." They dance, and no one can turn their gaze away from sourdre de sang and scion.

0o0o0

Belle Morte does not care for everyone she touches with her power, sometimes it can be like love between two – but sometimes power is only power and lust is her power. She owns it, owns everyone it touches; sometimes they think they love her, and there are many different kinds of love, some know it to be only powerful lust. Harry is not blind to that fact.

So when Donovan Reece comes to the court of Belle Morte, Harry knows it's more than lust he feels. He can't take his eyes off Donovan.

"Belle's little cat has caught his tongue." Wicked teases as coming up behind Harry and wraps an arm around his waist. Donovan sees it, and looks quickly away.

"Who is he?" Harry asks softly, so only Wicked – and Truth, who stands on Harry's other side – can hear.

"Belle Morte calls cats – but those like the swan king Donovan Reece and his swanmanes, or the veela, all the rest of them - they all are very loyal to Belle, they serve her out of their love of family and she protects the flock of them. She hatched from an egg, after all." Harry knows better than to ask if Truth is serious, Truth doesn't lie, what he knows, he knows for fact.

How he can know puzzles Harry for but a moment.

"You two knew Belle Morte, before she was Belle Morte." Wicked gives him a quick kiss on the neck, not quite a bite, but a small thrilling reward.

Harry has never been fed upon; and if he ever was, Belle Morte would be furious. Wicked and Truth have been playing with him, and he has played back, but he does not let himself wonder if either brother is serious in their attention and intentions with him. It would hurt if his own power was turned against him.

"Go play with your canary, little cat." Truth pats his shoulder, and with a look draws Wicked away.

Donovan Reece looks his way when Harry is alone, and perhaps that that Harry is makes him bold, for he approaches with a smile that lights his eyes.

"Will you dance with me?" Harry puts his hand in Donovan's and does just that. It feels right and good to dance with Donovan, like they fit as well as a puzzle.

"My name is Donovan Reece, I usually don't do introductions so backwards, but if you do not mind…what is your name?" His words make Harry smile, and he can't help but answer.

"Harry." Donovan does not stop dancing, but his breath stills, he doesn't dare breathe realizing too late that he put himself in Harry's hands – that if Harry wants to, he could trap Donovan and no one would protest it. Least of all Belle Morte, who may very well find it fitting and proper.

"Belle's... scion?" There is a fear there, Harry can feel it. It chills him in a thrilling way he's never felt before.

"That's right." Harry smiles, because he doesn't want Donovan to fear him.

"She is very proud of you." Donovan sounds defeated, and Harry hates it.

"I do my best to please her, she's my only family." Harry is aware now why there are pureblood families, to produce children a sourdre de sang would take pride in, would make scion – and protect them. Harry grew up without that very protection and foundation; it is something Donovan Reece as swanking grew up with, was groomed into.

His eyes widen with realization at what Harry has confessed – what it means.

"You are not alone now; you will never be without family." Harry's smile is bitter.

"You wanted to leave, how you can claim that?" Donovan claims Belle to be his family, his ancestress, as swankings have done for generations; she in turn protects his flock of swanmanes. Donovan can not claim Belle without claiming Harry.

"I will not leave you." It's a promise Donovan Reece always keeps as he and Harry learn to love and live with each other.

0o0o0

Harry has never met the six who sit upon Vampire Council until Belle Morte decides that it is time he will become a vampire. He knows it will not be Wicked or Truth, though they have grown close. It is perhaps because Belle sees this that she does what she does.

The Queen of Nightmares sits upon her throne beside the Dragon and the Traveler, Belle takes her place beside Padma and Morte D'Amour, who favors Belle with an open smile. Lust and blood-lust are much the same side of the coin, Belle acknowledges in a nod of her head.

"It is not proper that a scion be turned by his – or her - sourdre de sang." The Dragon says before Belle does as she looks upon them all. She knows what she speaks of, being once the scion of the Vittorio, and had been turned by the Day Father, her sourdre de sang. His passing had not weakened her, having power in her own right - but she feared never to being free of Marmee Noir, the Dark Mother whose essence they all held within them.

"It is a mistake we have seen time and time again." The Traveler agrees, when Padma frowns. He would speak, but he is youngest here – and least powerful – so he can, perhaps, protest last, but must hold his tongue in the business of his elders.

"Change, in this case, is perhaps for the best." Morte D'Amour adds, with a look to Belle Morte. She can see the strain Marmee Noir has had upon him, it echoes upon them all.

"He has never been my pomme de sang, I have no claim upon him – but, as his sourdre de sang I have the right to say who will make him childe." Harry looks them one and all in the eyes at Belle's words, unafraid to be so daring. He is not wholly human, Belle made sure of it - and the influence they could wield by eye contact they would not dare to do while Belle Morte sits among them.

"Do you have a choice of maker in mind, Belle Morte?" The Queen of Nightmares has a voice soft but full of thundering power, for they all strain to listen to her. She would not lead here if she was not so wildly powerful.

"Yes, I do, Jean-Claude. He is a sourdre de sang, he now rules St. Louis, he is a triumvirate with Anita Blake and Richard Zeeman – as well, Anita Blake has aided us against Marmee Noir risking her own triumvirate with Nathaniel Graison and Damian. Jean-Claude is of my blood, but not of my lineage. It is the proper thing to do." Belle finished, and the Queen of Nightmares nodded thoughtfully. Harry kept his mouth tightly shut, and Belle runs her hands though his hair soothingly, feeling his tension. Here he has no voice, but Belle Morte knows he is not happy – yet she knows he will see she is wise and has only his best interests at heart.

"Why would Jean-Claude do such a thing for one of your lineage Belle Morte?" The Dragon asked, frowning.

"He lacks a témoin now that Asher has left St. Louis." Belle Morte meets their eyes, daring them to call her a liar.

"How do you know that?" The Traveler asks with a purr, for once, he had had the pleasure of Asher. Belle Morte does not look away from him, for she knows he finds her gender…not to his tastes - from the Traveler, she does not fear. He has enjoyed the talents of her bloodline in other ways, enough to know not to cross her.

"Asher has come home to me to learn to tame his rage." Belle Morte smiles, and it is a dangerous thing – her bloodline may be lovely and the wielders of the ardeur; but they are _hers_. The Traveler has no claim to Asher unless Belle gives it.

"What would Jean-Claude gain, Belle?" The Queen of Nightmares, Belle Morte does not dare dismiss in answer.

"Harry is already powerful as my scion, he can wield the ardeur even now – and I have high hopes that he will form a triumvirate. He will be a worthy témoin for Jean-Claude, I have no doubts." Belle glances fondly to Harry, where he sits silently on a low cushioned stool at her side.

"There is also the matter of a seventh Council seat – I would put forward Jean-Claude's name." It was not the usual thing, for two sourdre de sang of the same bloodline to share power in such a way. It was why such a potential sourdre de sang was sent to rule away from the influence of their maker. To waste a sourdre de sang was frowned upon, but between two sourdre de sang of one bloodline, between makers, was always a rivalry – yet, in this, the Council knew, Jean-Claude was the first sourdre de sang of Belle Morte's blood – and she hoped Harry would hopefully be the first of her lineage.

"For what reasons..?" Morte D'Amour murmurs, suspicious as his nature. Yet he would listen to what Belle says.

"His triumvirate has become a point of power and influence we relay upon in this Council. To relay upon him in such a way, and than not to acknowledge it in reward is shameful upon us. If we do not give him a reward, well – he would be within his rights as a sourdre de sang to refuse to aide us further against Marmee Noir." Morte D'Amour is quick to flinch from her gaze, for he remembers well being controlled by the Dark Mother.

Jean-Claude, knowing or not, saved him too.

"Jean-Claude did kill Oliver." Padma reminds them one in all, expecting to stir them against it. Padma is young indeed, and Belle Morte hides her smile. It used to be the only way to get a seat upon the Council was by slaying someone upon it. Jean-Claude may twice have earned his seat to their minds if Belle has only convinced them.

"Let us put it to vote." The Queen of Nightmares declares, knowing well that a six way vote is a tricky beast.

"Against it?" Padma stands and he is alone, he has ousted himself as the only one who would not have Jean-Claude numbered among them.

Belle Morte does not bother to hide her smile now.

"You will give Jean-Claude this good news, will you not Harry?" Belle prompts, and Harry knows his answer is expected – it can be nothing but what she wants.

"Yes, my lady." He keeps his answer short and his eyes low so she will not see his anger.

0o0o0

Harry finds himself outside the Circus of the Damned; he stands with Wicked and Truth at either side of him, and with Donovan Reece beside. He looks to the clowns with their fangs, and wonders at the humor of vampires.

"You ready, little cat?" Donovan rolls his eyes at Wicked's words, he isn't pleased Harry tolerates being called that – and doesn't particularly like either to be called birdie or feathers either. _("There is no pleasing some people." Truth had muttered. _

_"Indeed." Donovan had sneered right back_.)

Truth smiles down at Harry, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"I do not see why Wicked or Truth can not do the deed." Harry says deliberately to Donovan while Wicked and Truth are near enough to hear. Wicked laughs, warm and dark as he goes to get the door open for them – it would not due to let Harry catch a cold, he's here to die, not to get sick, but there is nothing of the ardeur in Wicked or Truth. Harry has learned to be thankful for that. Wicked and Truth are just what they are, no more, no less.

They are scarily fantastic warriors, the best of the best – so good that they killed their master, and lived when their sourdre de sang died.

"If it was bedding you, little cat – well, have we not all done that?" Truth teases, keeping Harry close as he surveys the Circus, Harry is very aware that Truth is acting as his shield.

Donovan would open his mouth and hiss a swanking's possessive warning, if it was not, well, bad breeding. Donovan has the whole of the swanmane to call his own, Harry is not his. Belle would see Harry as his own master. Donovan does not dare interfere with that.

"No, neither of us are masters, so we can not be your maker, and to be without a master is…is a very painful thing, little cat. Be happy Jean-Claude will turn you, being his témoin will be no bad thing for you." Truth spots Wicked and gives Harry a squeeze, for behind Wicked walks at least a dozen others. Harry takes a breath; he must remember that this is a welcome, not an attack.

Harry sends his ardeur out as a pleasant pulse, a beat of buzz and bliss. He desperately doesn't want this first meeting to turn sour. It jolts into him that there are two echoes beside the pulse of his own power, one which is warm like a wolf – and the other with the passion and heat of a cat. It stills him, and when neither company seems inclined to introduce themselves – Donovan, with manners bred into him, does so, stepping forward without faltering.

"I am Donovan Reece, swanking, this is Harry Potter scion of sourdre de sang Belle Morte." Harry gives them a bow of his head, but very carefully doesn't meet any eyes yet. A woman, scarred and lovely with a fall of dark hair inhales sharply at that tell-tale sign. It tells her something she hadn't been sure of. Harry is human.

"Jean-Claude; this is my wolf, Richard Zeeman – and ma petite, Anita Blake." Jean-Claude is as lovely a man as Belle is a woman, and Harry knows he holds the ardeur, he had expected it – but the second sting of ardeur meant there was another. One living, one undead – and they knew him by his ardeur that he was living.

"Belle Morte wants you to, to turn this boy…this…this _child _into a vampire?" The scarred woman hissed to Jean-Claude, her eyes flashing in outrage. Her anger rolled over them all, the chill shadow of a storm. Richard frowned at Jean-Claude taking to Anita's side without speaking.

"Harry is no child, ma petite. Please understand he is to be my témoin – he is Belle Morte's scion he has been raised to do this." Jean-Claude showed not the least sign of strain at handling Anita's lack of restraint in speaking her mind. Harry felt that he actually took enjoyment in having her so untamed by him, free. It was something vampires rarely had, and they knew it for the gift it was.

"So he's some kind of gift, Jean-Claude – some kind of slave?" Anita wouldn't have that, and Harry kept his smile to himself.

"Anita Blake, isn't it?" Harry interrupts, and Anita looks to him with a nod and a tilted chin.

"Yes, that's right." She looks to Donovan, to Truth and Wicked, measuring them as if wondering how much of a threat they are to her getting her way. She's obviously used to such judgments – and surviving, it means she has well earned her name of Executioner.

"It is best if you think as Belle Morte as my mother, she wants what is best for me above all else. At times we are going to disagree, but it is ultimately my choice to be here. In a very real way, she is my only family. Jean-Claude is of her bloodline, a sourdre de sang – the first of her line to be so, it is my privilege to become his témoin." Anita doesn't like it but she is listening.

"The honor is mine, please, come in – my home is yours." Jean-Claude leads the way in, but Harry isn't fooled by his apparent ease. Harry is well aware that he and his people are surrounded by theirs. It isn't a comforting feeling, they are all strangers.

"Explain this scion of a sourdre de sang, thing, please." Anita keeps protectively to Harry's side, hovering. Harry has to smile, to see someone like Anita among this company is a relief.

"In many ways, Anita Blake, you and I are alike – we are both living and breathing holders of the ardeur, but yours came from the triumvirate with Jean-Claude. Mine is inherited; I might never have developed it, if not for Belle Morte. You know, I assume, that male vampires can have half-vampire children? The same is true too of female vampires in some cases. Belle had children before she was turned into a vampire – and, what is rarer, afterwards too." Anita's eyes widened, but she said nothing. She only kept pace beside him, and it was enough encouragement. He wanted to get to know her, he knew though that all of them could hear the conversation.

"Two thousand years ago, there was a thing called fostering; it was not done to raise royal children by the mother – or the father, it was a common thing to be fostered, raised by strangers to ensure peace between powers. Imagine being raised in that kind of world, imagine raising children in it and you come close to why Belle Morte is not at fault for loosing track of the children she bore, that they might have died, or had children of their own during travels …how was she to know? Mistakes were made, and she only found me by chance. I am an orphan, in a way Belle Morte is too." Anita used her ardeur like it was a thing apart from her, to probe at him, feeling as the ardeur could do, that his feelings were genuine, and his own. Harry knew what she would find.

"You…you truly love her, are loyal to her, like, like a son." Anita sounded baffled, as if she could not imagine Belle Morte loving like that, or being loved like that.

"You have heard much about Belle Morte, Anita Blake. There is much to hear about her after two thousand years, but you do not know her. I would like you to know her before you pass any judgments." Least of all if that judgment was to kill Belle as had been Anita's habit.

"You know, Harry – I just might do that." It was a thoughtful agreement, but Harry was only grateful it was not a rejection.

"So, you coming here as her scion, her son, it's like that fostering? She's raising you to rule as a sourdre de sang, as Jean-Claude's témoin…to strengthen his power, and hers, and keep the peace? That's how she sees this?" It was close enough that he did not bother to hide his smile.

"Yes, and she has voted Jean-Claude a seat upon the Vampire Council to ensure his protection, and mine." Jean-Claude stopped at the door, and turned to look at him, he saw Harry was serious, and he was very still in surprise.

"Wow. Better send her roses, Jean-Claude." Anita teased, and Jean-Claude couldn't help but blink at her in astonishment.

"Indeed, ma petite." Harry was fairly sure Jean-Claude was confused, and it made him laugh.

"So she doesn't see this as sending you to the slaughter, to get rid of you – doesn't she realize you've come here to, basically, die?" Anita pushed open the door, and held it open for Harry – it wasn't something she thought should be done for her or for him, it was simply her way of getting them through the door. Harry couldn't help but like her.

"There is that, isn't there?" Harry muses, keeping his calm in check.

"Do you want to die?" Anita frowns at him, protective, but judging.

"Belle doesn't see it as dying." Harry had to make that clear.

"Do you?" Anita, if Harry knows one thing about her, isn't the type to let go once she's following a conversation to find out something.

"It's not a bad way to die if you can come back from it." There was always a chance that he won't, and Harry knows that, he isn't blind to it. He doesn't have to like it.

Anita doesn't like it either.

0o0o0

There are two ways for Wicked and Truth to belong to a sourdre de sang, to belong to a bloodline; one is the blood oath, and another is that they have the good luck to make one. Harry knows what he's going to do – and Wicked and Truth may learn to like it, because Belle Morte certainly _will not_.

Harry would not feel justified in what he does if he had not realized he wasn't alone in what he felt. Anita wouldn't take this kind of treatment from Jean-Claude, so why should he obey Belle Morte if the result would be the same in the end? He could still be Jean-Claude's témoin, and become a sourdre de sang sooner, if he does this. He will simply be a sourdre de sang of the Wicked Truth's line, but of the lineage of Belle Morte.

To prove it he locks the door to the suite that Jean-Claude put them all in, and then, to simplify things, he lets the ardeur sing for skin upon skin.

"Harry?" Donovan is wide eyed and sits very still, aware that he's a swanking, a prey beast, in a room full of predators.

"It's time to do things my way." Harry confesses, as Truth licks his lips, fixing his eyes on Harry as if wondering where to start – and Wicked, Wicked is moving in, stalking forward to make a claim.

Harry lets them.

Lets it happen, when they bite him, and when they die at dawn, unaware of any fear, of any feeling of wrongness to what Harry has made them do - he knows he will be dying with them. He only hopes they can forgive him.

"Oh, god, Harry." Donovan dares to come up to lie against Harry; his fingers press against still bleeding bites.

"Over did it?" Harry smiles at Donovan through his pain, it lingers in his eyes, in the lines upon his face. His breath comes in a rattle that catches and hisses.

"Sorry." Harry whispers hoarsely to Donovan, weakly, as the swanking holds him gently skin against skin. Donovan is so warm, pale and cream.

"Why?" Donovan pleads, weeping freely. He's wounded deeply at his heart, but not upon his body, and Harry sees it, but he can't help. Harry can only hope that Donovan can forgive him this too.

"Had to die my way…" That's all Harry can think to say, the truth of it as he dies.

0o0o0

Harry wakes late, with Wicked holding him, sobs shaking his body; Truth touches his fingertips, not daring to do any more harm by his touch. Harry can't see or hear Donovan, he's aware but slow, feeling a primeval stillness sleeping within him – it's their words that urge him to full awareness, to speak, to do more than hear and see.

"We've killed him, how could he – how could we?" Wicked has been asking, over and over, while Truth can not seem to bring himself to say anything at all. Not to hope, not to comfort his brother.

"Alright..." Harry manages to choke out, his mouth dry, his tongue tastes like sandpaper.

"He's alive, well, not dead." Donovan murmurs, sure of what he says, he comes to the side of the bed where Harry can see him. His smile is a wonderful and frail thing.

"Why did you do it like that, why did you make us hurt you?" Truth asks, hand in hand with Harry his grip firm and cold.

"Wanted you, wanted us, together – a family." Harry knows why he woke to them, why he can reach them and why they were able to reach him – it's a success. He is their sourdre de sang.

"It was a stupid thing to do." Wicked reprimands as he is wiping away at his red-tinged tears.

"Do you hate me?" Harry doesn't dare try to feel that between them, he doesn't want to know it – not yet – not too deeply.

"No!" Wicked has never been good with words, and his feelings are too much to absorb, washing like waves upon Harry. He is their shore, their home that too is what it means to be sourdre de sang. Harry can't be content with it until he knows they are.

"I –we - are glad you did it. Just, it could have been…" Truth falters, and kisses Harry on the brow thoughtfully searching for the right words.

"More, better." Donovan offers, having seen this from start to finish, he has that right.

Harry embraces them, pulling Donovan upon him, and Truth taking his other side while Wicked still holds him near.

"Mine." He tells them, fierce and protective and possessive, a pride and loyalty and love they return without Harry needing to ask.

His, and he is theirs.

0o0o0

(_So, yes, the idea of Belle Morte being Helen of Troy, wife of Menelaus and Queen of Sparta is mine, I simply adore that sort of thing. Well, here is where some people will go "wait, wait, aren't Helen and Paris two run-away young lovers?", well, facts being what they are, Helen had a handful of children before ever meeting Paris._

_It's said that when she was young she bore a daughter to Theseus: this girl being Iphigenia, whom Agamennon (brother of Menelaus) sacrificed before sailing for war at Troy. Helen certainly left children behind, her nine year old daughter Hermione - perhaps Nicostratus, a son of Menelaus also said to be mothered by Pieris; but Plisthenes was a son she allegedly took with her to Troy._

_Helen also had children by Paris at Troy; Aganus, Idaeus, and Bunicus - Corythus may have been her son, or the son of Paris's first wife Oenone (yes, he too was married, it was a affair on both sides) but given that the Trojan war took about ten years or more, it's perfectly possible that the four were fostered to other royal families outside of Troy where they would be safe._

_Helen was said to be hatched from the egg of Nemesis, Greek goddess of indignation against, and retribution for, evil deeds and undeserved good fortune... In myth Nemesis was particularly concerned with matters of love._)


	48. Eyes Tell No Lies, HP&Artemis Fowl

**Eyes Tell No Lies**

_Hunter Bird_'s prompt: There was a boy at Artemis Fowl's school, who looked at him with knowing eyes when he returned after The Opal Deception. The boy was Harry.

0o0o0

People lie to themselves all the time. The thing, the main thing – the important thing, that is different between Artemis Fowl and _those people_ is that he doesn't lie to himself, ever. He knows he is difficult, he knows he's been raising himself most of his life and, well, he hasn't done a good job of it.

Artemis tries though, and that's what matters. He wants what's best in life, and he knows how far he has to go, what lines he has to cross to do what he needs to do and meet his goals. He can't afford to be nice, to make friends – what use would they be? – everything and everyone has to have a use, or there is no point.

There has to be a point to it all.

Artemis Fowl is brilliantly intelligent, insightful and sly, and cunning. That doesn't make him a nice person; it makes him rather the opposite, in fact. He can't afford the cost of friends. That would make him the _used_, and not the _user_. They would only make him weak.

Yet he wants them, _wants_ more friends than only the three he has.

So he goes to Saint Bartleby's School for Young Gentlemen not because it makes his mother happy, but because he wants it too. He wants to be…happy. There is nothing they can teach him that he can not teach himself better – except that, _except_ how to make friends. He can have this hope, childish as it is.

Artemis sits down for his first class, his eyes skimming over the other students – it's then that _it_ happens.

It is a boy with messy black hair.

It is green eyes with a tight, strained expression.

_It knows him_.

Artemis Fowl feels as if he can't breathe while those eyes look into him, see him, in ways that no one else has every dared or been allowed. Artemis has always tried to guard his eyes, his mind and thoughts, his very soul.

He can't guard against those green eyes that have caught him.

'_Who are you_?' Is all he can think, can plead.

The boy with black hair and knowing green eyes smiles and sits down beside him. Artemis can't think past his own clever thoughts to say anything, but that isn't a problem for the other boy, who smiles, despite seeing him, seeing into him.

"Hi, I'm Harry Potter." He offers his hand, Harry does – and Artemis takes it before he can think too much about it. Harry Potter is too common a name, he knows, but doesn't dwell on for once in his life.

"Artemis Fowl, a pleasure – are you new here?" Harry is certainly younger than Artemis's own years, but that – for once - matters nothing to Artemis.

"You could say that, I was supposed to go to **St****. ****Brutus**'s Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. There was a …mix up with the paperwork, to which I didn't see fit to inform my guardians of." Artemis finds himself smiling before he can stop it. Harry sees it and rolls his eyes.

"I can't imagine why." Artemis muses, teasing and testing.

Harry learns into Artemis's personal space, far more than what Artemis is honestly comfortable with.

"I know all about _the People_." He whispers, and Artemis Fowl doesn't doubt a word of it. The last two words he spoke were in Gnommish – Artemis has only heard it a few times, but there is no mistaking them now.

Harry's smile reaches his eyes, and Artemis likes it, likes him.

"However did you learn such a word, Harry?" Artemis smiles back, and doesn't bother to hide it. He thinks he's found a friend.

"Goblins taught me." Harry winks, as if it's a joke. It isn't, and Artemis thinks that if this fascination and interest isn't friendship, he won't ever know what is.

"Why?" Artemis asks huskily, he had to struggle for years for even a glimpse, he would have known if someone else had been looking like he had. No, how Harry knew Gnommish and Goblins and had eyes like those – it was magic if Artemis ever saw it.

"There are more beings with magic than fairies; you're looking at a wizard." Artemis grins, he can't help it – he likes Harry, likes his secrets, because Artemis Fowl knows he can find them out, can puzzle upon them – and there will always be more to Harry than them.

"I think we'll make great friends." Artemis Fowl admits, and Harry's green eyes don't disagree.

0o0o0

(_So I haven't read Artemis Fowl for ten years. I have never written anything with him in it, or read much fic where he is featured; but I think that if Harry had kept in contact with the goblins, and hadn't been allowed by his aunt and uncle to go to Hogwarts (or any other magical school), he would have found a way into a magical world somehow_.)


	49. Magic In Numbers, Numb3rs x HP

**_Magic In Numbers_**

_May Eve_'s prompt: Harry meets Charlie from NUMB3RS, if you don't mind that fandom, no child!Harry please.

_Note: I had never seen NUMB3RS before, so I started watching, it took a while to stop and write this._

0o0o0

7,067,529,900+ World Population

315,364,716+ U.S. Population

4 Potters

1 Professor

0o0o0

Harry Potter is a grown man, with children of his own – three of them in fact. So there is no proper answer to why he's dragged them along with him, so that Teddy can go to a class on the CalSci campus where a Professor Charlie Eppes will talk about math. Teddy had wanted Harry to come along, had begged and pleaded with his godfather until Harry had just said _yes_.

"Comfortable, dad?" Teddy asked gently; a hand on Harry's shoulder as if to steady him. Absently, Harry nodded, sitting with Al and Jim on either side. Jim took the aisle seat, putting himself like a wall between his father and the gathered class of muggles of all ages and races.

Jim has Ginny's rich brown eyes and Harry's black as night hair; he's fifteen and not afraid to hold tightly to his father's hand, his own hand is cold, and it's clear enough to Harry that he's nervous.

Jimmy looks at all the strangers, all the muggles, as if he'd take them all out if Harry so much as twitches wrong. For the sake of his oldest son's pride, he hides his smile. Jim had declined to be called _James_, once he realized that his name had been the name of his father's father- and that father's best friend, a grandfather he never set eyes upon.

He preferred to make his name is own with a short Jim, or Jimmy. Harry abided by that self-naming, knowing how it felt to live up to the shadows of great expectations. Jim and Teddy had shortened Harry's second son's name to Al, and Harry had said not a word against them. Lilu they had called Harry's little girl, a bit of a baby-name, but she liked it better than Harry's mother's name and the name of Ginny's best friend put together.

Their names had not been Harry's choice, but Ginny's wishes, but Ginny was gone, and her children would never likely forgive her for it.

It was a well known fact that where Harry went his children were bound and determined to follow him. It's why Harry had given up Ministry work, had given up a lot of things for them – and maybe Teddy was old enough to see that. Maybe that was why he wanted to go to muggle college, to get out of the Burrow with Harry and see something of the world, even if it was only a school in California.

So it was that Teddy had dragged his godfather out of the Burrow, into the light of the California sun, into a life that he'd forgotten how to live. Harry had lived for his children for long enough that he'd forgotten how to live for himself. Or at least that's what Harry had overheard Teddy telling Ron and Hermione when he'd asked for a portkey. He'd gotten one, so Harry guessed his best friends agreed with Teddy that Harry needed now to get out and live for himself.

Al can't seem to sit still with his brother so tense; he blinks up at Harry like a mirror back in time, with his own bright green eyes and messy jet black hair. He holds Harry's other hand, and Harry is content to have his sons on either side of him.

"Daddy, when is this going to start?" Lilu with her flaming red hair and baby brown eyes and freckles frowned up at the head of the classroom. At only nine, she'd not gone to school yet, but looked forward to Hogwarts with a growing enthusiasm. She'd still disdained to sit "the muggle way" and had climbed up on Teddy's lap like it was her right. Teddy let her do it, with a roll of his eyes. Teddy mimicked her red hair, but preferring wolf amber eyes.

"Soon as Eppes gets here, no doubt." Teddy told her, and her bright brown eyes looked about as if expecting him to portkey in at any minute. Charlie Eppes stood up from among the classroom's seats, and turned to smile at them all – his students for the next half-hour.

Harry could not have told Teddy that this Professor Eppes was not what he had expected at all, a man his own age, with his wild curly black hair and wary wide eyes. It was with a child's enthusiasm that he talked about math, about how the world worked and why. Harry did understand though, why it was that Teddy had wanted Harry to see him, Professor Eppes may have thought he was talking about _mathematics_, about the language of nature, but what he was really talking about was magic – and magic was talking back to him, a muggle. It was something so rare Harry had only ever heard of two others able to do it, Hermione Granger his best friend, a witch – and Harry himself, a wizard.

"What do you think?" Teddy asked softly as Professor Charlie Eppes talked about mathematical probability. He didn't use words like fate, chance, and destiny. The language was different, but similar enough that Harry could hear what was meant.

Professor Charlie Eppes was talking to magic – he called it mathematics, some called it faith, or science, or magic, or runes, or prophesy – but anyone could talk about _that_ and not know what it was, truly. But this, this was talking to Professor Eppes, shining out of him, blinding.

"Bloody brilliant." Harry answered, and it was – _he_ was.

Teddy settled back in his seat, a smug smile firmly on his face. This meeting wasn't for him, Harry knew now – Teddy had searched the world for something, someone, to wake Harry up by talking to, talking with, and talking about something he cared about – something called magic or mathematics that made Harry who he was.

When it was over, Teddy kept Jim and Al and Lilu at his side, seated, telling them to watch, to wait, there was something hushed and awed enough in his asking that they listened and watched.

They heard, they saw – beauty, a life being lived again.

"No one taught you to write all this, did they?" Harry asked of Professor Charlie Eppes, a small smile touching his lips as he stared at equations and expressions and equality. Mathematics. He shook his head, a touch awed, there were different ways of speaking the same language – some simply spoke, some wrote.

"No, not…really..." Charlie confessed, hushed, seeing that Harry understood what he'd written even without proof of education. Charlie had always had mathematics, it had rung in his head like a song until he couldn't help but try to write the lyrics. What he wrote down never felt as complete as a song, but it was close, as close as he could come.

"Would you like to hear it?" Harry touched the symbols, a glance behind him showed that only Teddy and his children were watching them in the room. The rest were gone, and Harry did not care where the muggles had all gone – all that mattered to him was this one, this muggle.

"More than anything…but, how could you…?" Charlie breathed with wild daring, and hoping.

Harry's touch lit up the mathematics like a light being switched on, like a key turning to complete a lock and open a door that Charlie couldn't.

"Magic." Harry spoke, as he listened to what Charlie had written with his mathematics. Harry could not write that language, he could hear it and speak it, talk to it as it talked to him – and Hermione could translate between what Harry heard and spoke, but she could not write magic into mathematics. Charlie could and had.

"_What_ are you?" Charlie asked, eyes upon the lit up equations as he listened for the first time to a mathematical formula put to magic, like music.

"A wizard…." Harry's lips twitched at Charlie's sudden scowling.

"And you, Charlie Eppes, are a muggle genius, a spell maker, a sorcerer." Charlie's mouth opened and closed, soundlessly. Stunned, perhaps.

"Is he coming home with us, Dad?" Al asks from his seat, staring up at mathematics made into magic. Harry didn't answer, could not answer for the Professor – only Charlie could say what he would do.

"Yes, yes I will be – but _where_ are you all from?" Charlie hovered over Harry, as if afraid of having him out of sight.

"The Burrow, of course, in Devonshire, have you not heard of either the Potters or the Weasleys?" Jim had gotten up to stand at his father's side, not liking Charlie to be so close to him.

"No, I can't say that I have." By the look of them all, Charlie knows – no, hopes – that is soon going to change.

"Come along Professor, would you like to meet my grandmother? She'll fix you right up, supper is soon – and tell you all about my da' and uncle Ron, his wife Hermione was muggle born, she's an alchemist – which is sort of what you are, da' is the only enchanter in the whole world. Your sort the alchemist, enchanter, sorcerer; your only born in threes. It's just how magic is, you know?" Lilu babbles as she gets up, holding out the portkey (a book _Hogwarts: A History_, Charlie notices among the child's rambling) Charlie reaches out to grip it, pausing when Lilu doesn't let go, smiling up at him – when Al beside her touches the spine of the book, when Harry holds onto a side – Teddy the other, and Jim sighs and touches the middle.

"Here we go!" Teddy chimes in, full of wicked glee. With that, they've gone away.

0o0o0

Don Eppes gets a call several hours later from his brother Charlie, who chatters about telling their dad not to worry, that he'll be back – just not sure when, perhaps after this weekend, (he might bring some friends from "the Burrow" family) he's got to be doing something between solid study and research in mathematics, the more archaic mathematical kind, of course, not to worry...

That night Don Eppes for the first time in his life looks up the word that he thought his brother Charlie was defined by. Mathematics means knowledge, study, learning – but has no limiting definition, no ending.

He thinks it's never fitted Charlie better, for a word that his brother _is_, and does.


	50. Alone Not Lonely, HP x Sherlock Holmes

**Alone Not Lonely**

**lalala**: Harry went to school with Sherlock's father. At age 14, he disappeared.  
Now 20 - 35 years old, Sherlock's father ('Sherrinford'?) is surprised to see  
Harry knocking at his door/ teaching Sherlock/ teaching Mycroft/ anything.

Harry's name can be changed to be more old-fashioned... I'd like it if this  
was the Victorian-era (or whenever it was) Sherlock, but it's fine if you want  
to use the modern version.

_Note: so the reader won't be lost, in _"The Adventure of the Empty House" _Sherlock Holmes says he spent some time as a Norwegian explorer called Sigerson "son of Siger"/son of the victorious; which some have taken to meaning Siger is the father of Sherlock. I take Siger "victor" to be short for a full name of Sigurd "victory's ward/protector". Likewise, Harry may be short for Harold "Army ruler"; but Harold is not the like meaning of Harry "Home ruler", you'll find Harry is a Henri here. __So, you have Sigurd Holmes, father of Sherrinford, Mycroft, Sherlock, and Enola Holmes, husband of Eudoria "well gifted" Vernet-Holmes. _

_*Eudoria and Enola's names comes from Nancy Springer's Enola Holmes Mysteries series, there six books so far. I've only read the first one. Enola is Alone spelt backward. _

_* Sherrinford is a hypothetical elder brother; his name is taken from early notes as one of those considered by Arthur Conan Doyle for his detective hero. (It is also spelled Sherringford)_

_I'm not playing any Sherlockian Great Game of genealogy; I'm quite content to let my method to madness be in world mythology._

0o0o0

Theirs was no loveless marriage, quite the opposite if facts were to be told true, Lady Eudoria Vernet-Holmes knew that well enough to be thankful. Lord Sigurd Holmes had loved, and lost, and loved again, and though he might well love Eudoria for many reasons, he was not _in_ love with her. His heart was not hers, and Eudoria could not find fault in her husband was in love with – for Eudoria too, loved the same strange man.

That much they shared, but not the first meeting with their Harry; Henri to Eudoria would always be her brother's friend, a wizard, a playmate and protector. When her brother had died, her father long buried, Eudoria had bullied her brother's son into marrying her to a foreign and far enough away Lord. She had had her way, the only way to keep her soul and body from being sent to a too early grave. Henri had saved her life and seen her to her to-be husband's manor door, boldly knocking upon it in the middle of a rainy night.

Lord Sigurd Holmes had opened the door, and not seen Eudoria, but his Harry.

Eudoria hid a small smug smile beneath her hat as she sat sunning in the yard, her belly growing with the flowers she had seeded only months ago. She took her pride where she could, she – Lady Eudoria Vernet- Holmes had been the sole reason Harry had met his Siger again.

They had been school boys together, Sigurd had told her, as they both watched Harry talk to his people, the Romani, the Gypsy, in a language that was all their own. Neither of them could understand what words Harry might have had with them. Lord Holmes had told Harry to make clear to them, his people, that they were always welcomed here, that Harry's home would be theirs too. At least, Sigurd hoped that Harry would call his home their own.

Harry stayed until the wedding, and when he walked Eudoria down the aisle, she had wished it was Harry she would call husband – and yet, she had seen Sigurd looking at Harry, and knew when her eyes met her to-be-husbands, that he wished he might call Harry his for life.

Eudoria, with Sigurd and Henri often at her sides, would call that wedding "theirs and ours" and not mean merely between husband and wife, in that way did they have a closeness and language all their own.

Eudoria took pride in that after sending the guests away full of wine and feasting, Sigurd had pretended having been drinking more heavily than he had (she had seen him watering that wine all night, and sipping only occasionally) Henri had laughingly helped Eudoria lead him up the stairs to the master bedroom.

"There you are, mistress, your groom I deliver to you." Sigurd had looked at her, eyes half lidded, what might be lust shining in the amber brown depths. She read those eyes clearly, knowing her own eyes gleamed just the same. They might have been looking at each other, but they weren't thinking about bedding each other. Sigurd kept his arm about Harry's shoulders, gripping him tightly to his side – having gotten his school boyhood friend back, he would not soon let him go out of sight.

"Oh, you have, have you Henri? What of my boots and belt? You can't expect my Vernet lady to do that task of undressing a stranger she hardly knows!" There is something wonderfully wicked about redheads, their powers of seduction and other arts had been remarked upon by pages. Sigurd was the cleverest of the lot.

"On the bed with you master and we'll see how long your lordship calls his own wife a stranger!" Henri shoved him onto said bed, playful, green eyes dancing. He went for Sigurd's belt, tugging and wrestling with it while Sigurd watched him with dark eyes.

Harry seemed to realize what he was doing, Sigurd may have pretended to drink – but Henri had been in truth trying to drown feelings he'd rather not have stirring in his body and blood.

"My lord, I…my lady…" Harry is pale and trembling, afraid. He stilled at Eudoria's hands upon him from behind, touching his back and rubbing, playing with his hair, touching tenderly upon his neck. Her eyes met those of the man she would call husband, and there was a silent agreement between the two. They would share this bed, but with Harry to tie them together to it. Neither would ever stray after another, if they had Harry.

"You are to help me with my corsets at once, Henri." Harry looked at Eudoria over his shoulder, with her dark brown hair and grey as sky eyes.

He looked to the lord below him, and when Sigurd nodded firmly, without a doubt that this was right – if not lawful, Harry swallowed and looked to her almost shyly. Eudoria, if she had not been endeared to him before, knew her heart was his after that look.

"As you will, my lady, my lord…" Those words haunted her, made her shiver in dark and sudden desire, even under the warm summer sun.

Eudoria touched her belly, where their child was cradled.

"Must you go?" Lord Sigurd Holmes spoke from the door, and Eudoria turned – cold gripping her heart, but not freezing her, as she turned to see something out of one of her darkest dreams. Henri stood on the other side of the threshold, facing Sigurd, a pack was on his back, and he did not meet Sigud's eyes as he spoke.

"There are things I must do, Siger – things no one else can do, or would if they could, it's my calling to go. I do not want to; you must believe me, my lord." Sigurd sees her in the yard, standing still and silent, and his jaw clenches, tight and sullen.

"Do not call me that, I'm not…not to you, Harry – you, you must see that I see you as my equal in all things." _In my marriage, in my life_, there are so many things that Sigurd does not say or suggest – he can not, not outside their own manor, their world they must protect and take shelter in when they can. Yet Eudoria sees Sigurd's meanings, his hinting, and knows Harry is not blind to them.

"Siger, I must go – it is not something I want, not something I need, not something you can give me. I must, it…it's in my blood, calling." Harry touches the length of holly at his side, it's a scarred wood, old, something that he has always carried on his person. It marks him for Romani, marks him as one without a family name, rootless in the world, he will only ever be Henri, without a home.

"Harry." Eudoria takes his hand in hers, gripping it tightly.

"What will you name your child?" Eudoria does not hide her feelings behind her words, and her eyes meet and hold Sigurd's – her husband does not protest. The child is hers, is Harry's – but will have Lord Holmes' name. Harry takes a stuttering breath.

"Sherrinford_._" Harry looks into the distance, his word a whisper upon the wind. In that word is a promise to return. He goes as they watch, alone the gravel path, and once beyond the gate is out of sight.

Sigurd looks to Eudoria, for neither of them know what Sherrinford is, or was, or will be, but they both find it is a fitting name for their first son.

0o0o0

Henri comes back, green eyes like broken blades of grass, bloodied in body and soul, and holds Sherrinford close when Eudoria puts him gently in Harry's lap, not speaking, not daring.

There is something in Harry's eyes that tells her he would sooner flee than sit and face them. It's wild and willful, a hurt beast that no kindness can tame. He has to heal. She listens to her instincts and urges Sigurd to do likewise, they close off the curtains until the manor is as dark and deep feeling as a cave of shadows out of old lore, they keep it still and quiet as they can, sending the servants away on holiday.

Sherrinford alone, their little year old with Harry's bright green eyes and her auburn hair helps Harry when no one else can say anything without him looking lost and hurt. It is perhaps Sherrinford can say nothing at all yet, but he's a clever boy, Sigurd's heir, and lets Harry hold him when no one else can get near Harry for fear of him withdrawing too quickly to save him.

Sherrinford alone soothes him, Henri's healing is slow but steady, and Eudoria dares hope.

It is not until Harry steps into their bedroom and lets them welcome him home properly, that they know he won't go far if he goes again.

0o0o0

Eudoria wakes to Henri's head upon her naval, his eyes are closed, but he is posed, not sleeping – listening. It reminds her of Sherrinford, when Henri had stopped and smiled and said that Sigurd would have his heir. They had not quite believed him, but Eudoria now did not doubt that prophesying trait.

She runs her fingers through her lover's black as night hair, and he opens his eyes to stare upon her, and she feels his wonder, his awe. It is a look a man gets around a woman, tender and possessive, like fire that look – it warms and it burns.

"What are you thinking?" Eudoria asks him, her voice husky, returning his fire for her own.

Harry presses a kiss to where he laid his ear.

"You'll have another son soon." It's a promise, a vow, and Eudoria looks to where Sigurd lays, sprawled across Harry's back.

"What name this time?" Sigurd is content to let Harry have their naming, their making. No son of Eudoria will have Sigurd's red hair, she knows.

"Mycroft." Henri smiles, sincere, hopeful, and the words sound like he says _my craft_. Croft though is an old word, it means a settlement of a cottage, and so what Harry is really saying is my home. It's a gift that Eudoria and Sigurd reward by kissing Henri until he's breathless and panting and soon moaning.

0o0o0

Henri stays until Mycroft is born, stays until he's toddling around the house at two, a terror to Sherrinford who seems not to know what to do with a little brother. He refuses any attempt of a _playtime_ with Mycroft, and clings to Harry's side as if he knows what his parents do not – that Harry's is being called, again.

Sherrinford has Harry's blood in him, so perhaps it is that exactly, why too that Mycroft is restless and fussy.

Henri tells Eudoria and Sigurd of what he is, what he must do, in the dark in the safety of their bed where no one can see or overhear him. It's the night before he is to leave, he holds them tight to him and whispers of the lords of darkness and magic and wizards and witches, because that's what he is – a wizard.

He tells them of a war they've never heard hinted of, that he is hunted, that he goes to war.

In the early morning, Eudoria wakes and sits beside the widow, she watches as the Romani come with the mist, and leave with Henri before the sun shines.

She doesn't feel the sun's warmth again on her skin for a very long time.

0o0o0

Sherrinford is nine and reading back and forth with seven year old Mycroft, as if it's a game. Sigurd knows that to be an unusual thing for such young boys, to love words so rather than playing and roughhousing on the lawn- but he loves to watch them at it.

Eudoria likes them for their strangeness, she sees Henri in Sherrinford's eyes, in Mycroft's hair, as if they are two pieces of a puzzle that would make another Harry. It hurts to look at them, and wonder where Harry is – if he lives, or died, or remembers them, if he still loves and longs for them, or if they are forgotten.

A man walks to the gate, but at first Eudoria does not notice him – it is Sherrinford who stops reading mid-word, looking up, and though he is supposed to be too young to remember Henri with any clarity, he does.

"Look, Mycroft – that's dada." Sherrinford's voice is soft and hushed, and Henri hears it, so too does Sigurd who sits at Eudoria's side. He sits up, straightens and stares at Henri. Always the boys call Sigurd, _Father_, and Eudoria they call _Mummy_ or _Mum_ or _Mother_, but never the baby-talk of _Dada_ or _Daddy_.

Henri comes to stand at Sigurd's side and offers his hands, as if asking if he was still welcome here. Sigurd stands in a rush of long limbs and hugs Henri close to him, Eudoria takes his hands in hers, aware of Mycroft and Sherrinford having come to join this circle of homecoming.

"Stay, of course, stay." Sigurd says, as if there could not be any doubt about it.

0o0o0

Henri is restless, telling them of villages where wizards and witches are safe, that soon there might no longer be Romani wandering with magic in them. He fears for them, his home, his family, Henri wants them to go away with him to one of those villages, Godric's Hollow or to Spinner's End. Those little villages always have strange names.

Sigurd is well aware that he and Eudoria would not fit into that kind of village, they are not a wizard or a witch – and by being there, Henri may be thought less of. That he bedded a muggle wife and husband and his blood is muddied and muddled. Sigurd says nothing of what he hears beneath the words Henri uses.

"We have made our home here, Harry. As long as you are with us, what harm will come?" Eudoria asks, but Harry has no answer.

There is only fear in his eyes, that they – who he hides in a home he's made his own – will be attacked while he is away, and he could do nothing in the shadows. Only if they come out will they be watched, by wizards and witches, and that is something neither the Lord Holmes nor his Lady wants.

0o0o0

Harry settles when Eudoria grows with child, he teaches Mycroft and Sherrinford to play as most children do, as if it was something that they had to be shown.

"What will you name this one?" Sherrinford asks of Harry, as if he's guessed how his own name and Mycroft's had come to be. It is something Eudoria never told them, and knows Sigurd would not for fear that they, being young and not knowing how to keep a secret would say something unseemly. It is an eerie guess, not merely good.

Harry looks at Sigurd, the man he loves, with his red hair, bright in the sunlight.

"Sherlock." Sigurd's smile is small but pleased.

0o0o0

Sherlock is born with hair like dewy ink, black, but his name is not meant in irony, the boy is bright and quick, he has his mother's light grey eyes. There is something of a hawk in his look, or a predatory cat.

He'll do great deeds, Harry pronounces, that Sigurd never doubts.

Of all Henri's sons by Eudoria, Harry is close the most to Sherlock, and perhaps it is because of that favoritism that Sherlock keeps a disdainful distance from his older brothers, his mother, and his father. Harry is blind to Sherlock's faults.

Harry stays the longest after Sherlock is born, for fifteen years he does not feel a calling. The night he does, at twenty four and feeling like a naughty ten year old; Sherrinford stands on the brink of knocking on the master bedroom door; of begging to be let in. His blood is singing, calling just like Harry's.

"You can not ignore it?" Sigurd asks, soft and pleading. Harry is not young, Sherrinford knows – he has to be perhaps fifty, or sixty. Every time that Harry has gone away – when Mycroft was little he did not come back for years, and when he did…Sherrinford shakes at the thought. Harry's blood calling him can only end in answering it, but in answering it, Harry could very well die.

"Siger, I've been trying, for months. They won't heed." Months? Sherrinford looks to his hands, to his skin and the blood beneath them – he'd only felt the calling for a day, and he was reduced to a child's need to crawl into bed with mother, father and dada.

"Harry, Harry, please, breathe, it's alright, we'll see you through this. It can't go on much longer, love." Sherrinford had never heard his mother plead or beg for anything in her life; it was granted to her, a gift, and her right. It was why Sherrinford found the society he went to school in so strange, beyond these walls, woman were the tools of their fathers, their brothers, their sons.

He could not think of ever treating a woman who would be mother to his children, that he called wife, in such an awful way. He'd learnt better from his birth. Now his mother pleaded for Harry to live though his blood calling him away, to stay. It was cruel of her.

"Please, let me leave, they're killing me." It seemed Harry spoke not to Sigurd or Eudoria, but to Sherrinford. As if he knew his son, his blood was beyond that door. Harry groaned in a pain that was obvious, and Sherrinford remembered that his mother had taken something from Harry long ago, a slender bit of wood he called a wand.

He thinks of seal skins and selkies, of wizards and wands, of oaths that bind. It makes him sick to think that his father, his mother, had done something so simple and evil like that.

Resolute, he turned away from the door, going to Sherlock's door – to Mycroft's rooms; they had to find the wand that their mother had hidden, to save dada.

0o0o0

Sigurd looks in his library for an answer he won't find, as Eudoria keeps Harry company in the garden, Harry looks to the sky and is silent and too still. Sherlock sees it, and hates his mother for it. Can't they – _she_ – see that by keeping him, they are killing him?

She most of all should know.

Sherlock sits beside Harry, tangles and entwines their fingers, silently promising to find what he needs. His blood burns slow and steady; he can't hear the pounding beat of his heart over it.

It takes them three years to find the holly wand in the knot of an oak tree at the edge of the wood that marks the end of the yard.

0o0o0

Harry doesn't speak in any language Sigurd can understand; only his sons speak to Henri, in Romani. Eudoria had given up asking them to tell her what he says. Harry is in so much pain that it can't be anything she would want to hear said.

0o0o0

"Hadesa." Harry murmurs in Eudoria's ear, she's half asleep, but she remembers it, past the panic of finding her bed empty of Harry, of finding her sons gone away with Henri.

Sigurd still searches for an answer, not wanting to face that Harry is gone, is not coming back. That by keeping him back, they'd turned him against them, and that their sons had followed in Harry's footsteps.

Eudoria finds herself with child, and names her only daughter Enola Eudoria Hedasa Holmes.

Alone.

0o0o0

Sigurd dies when Enola is four years old, Eudoria finds her three sons looking back at her across from the newly dug grave.

She banishes from ever setting foot Siger's manor, but she still welcomes the gypsy wagons that come passing by her way. She still hopes that one day she'll see Henri.

0o0o0

Eudoria waits until Enola is fourteen; she hides away the fortune that she's taken as her due from her sons, so that Enola may have a dowry, an inheritance worthy of her as her father's daughter. She teaches her daughter many things, but not to be ruled by another's mind.

On her daughter's birthday, she leaves to find one gypsy.

A daughter should not grow up never knowing her da.

0o0o0

Harry finds her, in the end, and if it isn't happy, it's them. It's love, its pleasure and pain. She learns to speak to him again; Romani tastes like wild roses and wine when she says anything in it. Henri goes to Sigurd's grave with her at his side, and bows his head and weeps. Eudoria knows that Siger died because Harry wasn't there, with them.

She doesn't blame him.

Eudoria only watches when he breaks his wand.

They wait for their children to find them, knowing it won't be long.


	51. To Be or Not To Be, HP&Being Human

To Be (or Not To Be)

**Eve's Prompt**

Being Human (BBC) & Harry Potter

The school Adam (from Being Human) went to had a buddy system. Adam was  
Harry's buddy.

_(If you have not seen all of the mini-series of "Becoming Human" and all of BBC's "Being Human", well, I'll just say this…there will be spoilers!)_

0o0o0

It's on a busy street where they meet. Not for the first time, no, but for the first time after a very, very long time. The old man in his wheelchair and the boy who stares at the people coming and going, he sees them – they do not see him. He doesn't want to be seen, but the old, old man – he sees the boy, and goes to his side.

"I had a friend once." The old man begins, looking at the crowd of people, as indifferent to them as to the tide.

"Most of us do." The boy agrees, looking to the old man but once. He shies from him, but looks to the people.

"Oh, but this friend, he was – something else, magnificent, lovely really, and oh, so loyal it still makes my bones ache. We two, well, we were much the same. We were meant to be. He had dreams of Empires, oh, not of how people could be, or are – but how it all should be. He followed his dream and Rome was built in a day. People now a day say, oh, no, that can't be. Who can make a city in a day? Impossible! Just as imposable as all that supposed rubbish as the making of the whole wide Earth in a week. That's what they say now." The old man's eyes flashed with a red gleam as the sunlight and shadow shifted.

"Bunch of idiot monkeys." He sniffed, not hateful, no – disdainful. The boy saw the people coming and going, and counted upon them meaning something, being worth something, saving. The old man saw those people as less than the things they were meant to be.

"What does it matter now? Rome is a ruin. What they have now, what they've built for now, is it not better? The old is old and mostly forgotten for a reason, your friend knew that." The boy tilted his head toward the sunlight, soaking it in, as if he'd been somewhere dark and small for a very long time.

"No, I fear you are wrong. My friend built Rome, and Rome is all around us, it echoes in all this, it's still all Rome, you see? Oh, they may not know it, but I do, I've seen it, it's kept me going, hoping. My friend, you see, he went away one day – and I figured out how, of course, and why by following his dreams. He didn't want to be what he was anymore, what I was, so he made a gift of himself with these three clever brothers. He took himself apart so he could be born and die, by their blood. Oh, it wouldn't be forever, I figure he always knew that much. Someday, someone of that blood would put him back together again, a bit of a puzzle as to whom, but I know now." The old man smiled in a way that was almost as sick as it was secretive.

"I never meant to hide from who I was, Azrael…" The boy with his green eyes looked to meet the red eyed old man who now wept.

"Only what,Samael, only what… I understand, my dear, I do. I don't blame you. Do you know, they call us messengers, angels, devils, and demons, so many words that mean different things, good, bad, great, fallen, evil – it makes me miss the old Tower of Babel, though, we aren't meant to be mortal, to live in broken bodies, or to be born mortal with mortal blood…it….does great things to us…and to them, terrible at times – but great.." The old man wiped his eyes, and tipped his head to the sky.

The boy sat very still with his black ring by which dead souls sought to speak, with his wand of Elder wood who kept the bearer immortal by right of might and blood; with his cloak of silver light like the moon, which could hide anyone from anything, but not from themselves. All three had been lost, and the boy had found them all, had gathered them all up, he had made himself whole. He was the boy who lived, and lived as ages and eons went by, as old as the old man was, and both their bodies lied. Souls, they say, are immortal, and maybe that's so, but the boy and old man are bound by mortal bodies, and bodies die – but they two go on, heedless of mortality, but not it's meaning, in humanity.

Yet the damage had been done to the world, and there were ghosts, vampires, werewolves and more now wandering and wondering. As lost as the boy had been once. Yet he was here, and he was no more a boy than the old man was a mortal man.

"All along I've been looking for you." The old man admitted, taking in the sight of the boy as if he was joy, and bliss, and the blessing of an oasis in the driest desert.

"I know." The boy agreed, nodding simply.

"Master of Death, what ever will we two do?" The old man asked, smiling in a way that became a sneer, a leer, more sinister than any oncoming storm – there was no shelter for any poor soul caught up in his wild ways. He meant for the entire world to live and die in fear of him. To suffer as he had suffered. Alone.

"I will give you a purpose, Azazel; they have named you thus, the opposer, the adversary, the accuser, the Stranger, Satan. So shall you be to me. I have ears and eyes to see. I may have parted myself into trinity, but you made what I was, what I wanted to be into a mockery." The boy hissed, and they two were now all alone upon the street and sidewalk.

It amused Azazel, that these modern mortals claimed now that never had there been any immortality, nor any great Powers like God, oh no, where was the proof? – and this was why they would not see, would never, could never see - they fled from any hint of it. When they heeded they were mocked for mad.

"As you wish, Samael…. I will be your Devil, your demon. Yet once I was your lover, too. So it is only proper you know, my dear, I had a daughter by the daughter of one of you precious Peverell blooded boys. Hollow blooded, just like what's in that boy's body. I think you'll love her." The old man laughed as the green eyed boy vanished in the blink of an eye. He would try to fix it, the old man knew. It was what Samael did, and in the while – it would give Azazel time.

Time he needed to rise; to whisper…to be, or not to be.

0o0o0

Adam sees to it that Matt's body is found, put to rest, buried in the church yard that Adam lives across the street of. Adam can watch over Matt's grave that way – and he doesn't think that's too creepy. Well, at least neither Matt nor Christa says that they think it is…outright, to Adam's face. Yet.

As Mr. Roe goes through the door meant for the dead, he's simply deemed missing – but when Mr. Swan tells the staff that he thinks Mr. Roe is connected to the formerly missing Matt and shows them proof by evidence he didn't gather. If only Adam and Christa know the truth of that, well, that's okay.

If anyone notices that Mr. Swan shies from the new boy Adam, that Brandy Mulligan says not a word to or about Christa – or that Danny Curtis now keeps his mouth shut and doesn't bully anyone... Well, no one does anything about it. That's school though, there are a lot of students to keep eyes upon- and the administration and its staff seem to realize it. They do their best, but are all too often a part of the problem so far as the students are concerned.

It's what they do about it that makes Adam worry – it's this, this buddy system. In homeroom, everyone is paired up, it doesn't matter if they knew each other well, are friends, or aren't – everyone gets a buddy, and no one has to like it, but they have to learn to live with it.

"Bummer that!" Matt mumbles, standing between Adam's seat and Christa; they've taken the back table for all the good it does. His slight grin shows he's glad he didn't live to have to take an active part in this…buddy system. Mr. Roe had been their homeroom teacher, so they are the first class to hear about this new plot to make their lives interesting. There's a knock on the door, once, twice, thrice, and when Mr. Smith answers, he leads in a new boy, like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

His hair is black, a wild and willful mess, and he clearly doesn't give a damn. His eyes catch sight of Matt and stare. They are green eyes Adam sees almost too pretty to be boy's eyes, what with his lashes and…lips.

Matt inhales, wide eyed, standing still as if he does the boy might look away. Matt was never noticed much in life; and in his death, as a ghost, well, it's been even less. There are in fact only two people who can see Matt, and he's standing right between them – and now, this new boy.

"What…he…who, he can see me! Adam, Christa! He can see me!" Christa inhales in sharp surprise, licking her lips. Adam wonders what she senses about this boy, because he's not like anything Adam has ever…sensed. He's not a werewolf, not a vampire. The new boy may be staring at Matt – but Adam is staring at him for all the wrong reasons. He's supposed to be normal here, to try to fit in, to find friends.

He has Christa, and he has Matt, a werewolf and a ghost. Not exactly the normal kind of fitting in he'd hoped for. But it's the best Adam's been able to do in three months. Matt may wonder why Adam doesn't like-love Christa like Matt did before he died, even after kissing her enough times to memorize the soft warmth of her lips, the slight edges of her teeth. It's because Adam reacts in one of two ways with girls, they are food, and it's better to have your food like-love you willingly than not – or they aren't. Christa isn't anything to him, but perhaps a friend; on her better days, when she doesn't want to kill him.

"This is Harry Potter." Mr. Smith says, proudly, smiling at them all as if they should stand up and give a welcoming cheer. Danny Curtis only rolls his eyes. Adam tries to think of it as progress.

"Right, well Harry, why don't you take a seat next to Adam, he'll be your buddy while at school." Mr. Smith pats Harry on the shoulder, pointing to the only other empty seat in the room - by Adam.

"Buddy..?" Harry asks, his tone dry with obvious dislike at the word, frowning as he takes his gaze from Matt. Matt promptly vanishes from sight, a little rude, but Matt had always been the shy sort. Adam sort of slumps down, cringing at Harry's apparent disapproval – Christa gives him a strange, worried look. Adam can't explain it, but Harry makes him…nervous, excited, and wary all at once.

"Yes, due some recent unfortunate events at this school, we've taken new precaution measures to ensure the safety of the students. You'll meet with Adam in homeroom, and at least once between your classes to check up on each other." Mr. Smith explained, expecting Harry to walk away once it had been explained to him, he only frowned.

"Don't you take class attendance? Aren't the CTTV cameras working?" Harry asks quickly, as if testing Mr. Smith.

"Yes, of course, but there is always room for improvements to be made…" With that answer Mr. Smith made it clear the subject was dismissed, as was Harry. Harry's green eyes narrowed poisonously, but he goes to take his seat by Adam. He says nothing to Adam, and Adam does not dare speak to him when he has not been spoken to. There was something ominous about him, as if there was something there that Adam couldn't see, something more, something greater than he was.

Adam did study him, not quite caring if it was obvious and could be called staring. Harry wore a coat that hung to mid-thigh, a dark red that was like blood, and gold buttons and zippers. There were two leather cuffs not attached to the coat that hung like bracelets about his wrists. It reminded Adam of a brace, and with the stiffness Harry held his left arm, he was sure it was either in a brace or concealing something. He keeps a leather pack by his side, and fiddles with the gold ring on a silver chain around his neck.

Harry's green eyes caught his.

"What…what are you?" Adam isn't sure if he mouths the words without sound, or if he says them. They make Harry smile in something very like satisfaction. Harry doesn't answer, isn't going to answer, not because Harry doesn't know what he is – he isn't in denial like Christa had been, but because he answers by not answering. If Adam can't figure out what's sitting right in front of him, he isn't worthy of knowing. Isn't worth knowing...

Adam's eyes flash black and Harry only fiddles with the ring about his neck with a stone as black as Adam's eyes. Adam feels weak and afraid, and full of the need to find out answers and prove himself.

Christa is partnered with Brandy Mulligan, and curses under her breath the rest of the day. There is no talking to her about Adam's "little crush" and while Adam has to keep Harry in sight (the buddy system, he tells himself, even if he knows he'd do it anyway without it) Matt is nowhere to be found near Adam – or Harry.

0o0o0

That night Adam calls the home of two werewolves, a ghost, and a vampire. It isn't his home. It could have been, once.

In books, it's the usual claim that werewolves are pack-people, but they aren't, not really, but vampires are. So Adam knows why the vampire wants to keep his home clear of Adam, a rival to his little home and family. George and Nina and Anne are Mitchell's in a way that Adam can't tell them about- can't explain, but knows by gut instinct. Adam wants that for himself, sure, who doesn't…but he won't take them away from Mitchell, whose older, who can protect them in ways that Adam can't.

Adam is forty-six years old in the body of a boy. Mitchell has lived his years, had made his way in the world. Adam has always been a sheltered boy, protected by his parents, his mom and dad giving him everything he needed. The blood, their blood, because he was blood of their blood – their giving cost them their lives in the end, and a part of Adam hates that he did that.

So he calls George, because who else is he going to call, really? George is like his dad was, dependable, strong, and blindingly smart when he cares to show it. Adam stays otherwise away from George, somewhat because of how Mitchell had sneered at him, protective and possessive.

"Hey, my main man George!" Adam greets in sing-song. He hears a huff of amused breath. Adam doesn't ask about how turning into a werewolf this past full moon went, it's something a bit too close to personal – and rude.

"Adam. How is school coming along?" George asks, pausing at Adam's name in a way that tells him that he is not alone. Adam only hopes it's not Mitchell on the other side with him. Mitchell hadn't been pleased when Adam had asked about how to deal with werewolves on the full moon.

"Fine, fine, Christa's being wicked, but she's normally that way. I think all she-werewolves are a bit…intense. How's Nina?" Adam tests the waters, seeing how George reacts.

"She's fine, Adam. What's this about?" George knows Adam well by now, he isn't the type to call unless he needs something. It's not that Adam doesn't want to talk to them, or needs them; it's that what he wants and needs isn't good for them. He isn't going to fight Mitchell for what he's found with George and Nina, and Annie, because even if he won some place there, he'd lose.

"A new boy showed up in school today. He isn't a werewolf, he smells too fantastic, but he's got that wild and willfully looks... He's no vampire either, oh, he's got power, and pretty green eyes, but I don't know what he is….he saw Matt, my friendly ghost." Adam licks his lips at George's sudden and stunned silence.

There is a murmur of Mitchell's voice.

"Adam." Mitchell speaks to him, and that's rare enough, but Adam is listening.

"Keep away from him; he might be only a hunter…" Adam makes a questioning sound, but Mitchell goes on without much of a pause. "Or he might be more, have you seen something like a wand? There are very few beings that can see ghosts, in the entire world, they are related to one another, you see? But one of them is rarer yet than the likes of us werewolves and vampires. They deem werewolves only sick, you understand? They see vampires as simply freaks of nature, but the Old Ones, they…they say we were made by the likes of them – a mistake in a potion, like the elixir of life, or a deal with Death. Vampires were their experiment, you understand?" Mitchell is very, very serious, and sounds worried for Adam – which isn't like Mitchell at all.

"Them, them who…?" Adam also wants to know what "hunters" are, but one thing at a time.

"Wizards – and…and witches – I'm being serious, if that new boy is one, if there is a sign of magic or wand-waving or strange Latin-like words, you run, you hear? Wizards and witches keep the system going, with the doors of death, and everything, they are the wardens of the secret, keeping everything from spilling out. Be very careful." Mitchell hisses the last word, and Adam thinks his eyes might be black.

"Yeah…yeah, I hear, but…what…what's a hunter?" Adam had looked out the window to distract himself, and what he sees is the graveyard he lives by. Admittedly not the most prime of real state, but the rent is cheap, and he's got the self satisfaction of looking out at it and knowing that if he keeps his head down, he'll never end up with a gravestone of his own. Out in that graveyard is the chapel of St. Hilda's School for Girls –its night, and should be empty. There's a woman out there, waiting by the chapel, framed by the light coming from the open door. Adam frowns at the strange sight taking place just outside his own yard.

"A hunter usually is just a normal person, with a vendetta of revenge in mind with usually werewolves or vampires. They hunt them down and kill them, but if this boy can see a ghost, he's no mere hunter." The last thing Adam is listening to is Mitchell, because out there in that graveyard Harry's just appeared, out of no where. The woman spots him as soon as Adam does, and bows; not some flimsy half waist bending, no, she gets onto her hands and knees and her head touches the ground and she doesn't look up. It's like she doesn't dare, and Harry, Harry looks so sad.

"I, uh, got to go. Catch you later, bye!" Adam is out the door and he isn't sure if he hung up on Mitchell or not. He walks quickly with his gaze fixed, hunching his shoulders and hurrying to a path that wanders near them in the graveyard; he peers beyond bush and climbing ivy, and watches. He strains to hear the conversation, what Harry says or what's going on. He's not fool enough to run right out into the open, he sticks to the shadows – which, while at night, isn't as easy with street lamps.

"Please, get up Yvonne Bradshaw. I am not what you think I am." Harry kneels down beside her, touching her shoulder and something like sympathy. His eyes blaze green, and Adam realizes that his eyes, inhuman and powerfully mesmerizing had been the first thing Yvonne Bradshaw had seen of Harry.

"You, your like him, my father, beautiful my mother said – and cruel. She…she was extraordinarily vivid in her recall of him, even when she could recall little else, she remembered him. I thought it mostly an impossible fantasy…I never met my father, but I always had my suspicions to what he was. You've made it vividly clear that however uncanny and implausible, it's true…my father, he was like you, not human, but…but what you are." Harry's eyes catch hers, and there is something in him that's like her. Adam holds breath he doesn't need, and wonders if this woman's father stands before her in the body of a school boy.

"I am still getting used to all that I am and once was, Ms Bradshaw. What we do have in common is your mother's blood. It's mine as well." Harry tugs her hand to urge her to stand with him; she's taller standing than he is.

"What your father did…I can understand it, though I do not like it. I'm not wholly what I was, I was born human enough, but our blood carries a, well, a ancient being, a intelligence of what some might claim to be angelic nature or demonic. It's not human, but it had been waiting in us all, watching, there were keys made by three brothers that when brought together by one of our blood, awakens that being in them, unlocks the door, and lets the two become one. That's what happened to me. It's like I'm me, but there's a mirror in me that shows someone else entirely. Do you understand?" Harry's lips twist into something like a grimace. He doesn't like how he explains what he is, but he can do no better nor worse than this.

"Not by half, but enough to know you need help. Is something the matter?" Harry looks at his hand, frowning at where his skin touched hers.

"I'm sorry, Ms Bradshaw…so sorry. You weren't untouched by your father's blood. You are what some would call a succubus. How is your love life?" Harry clenches his fist, as if crushing something; he wipes his hands on his pants as if to be rid of the dirt there. Only there wasn't any dirt to be seen anywhere on his person.

"Excuse me? Are all your kind so bold?" She fidgets and tucks hair behind her ear. She is as suddenly as shy as a school girl, blushing in the dark.

"Yes, some are blunter. Right now your father intends to kill as many as he can. Please, answer me now." Harry looks at his hand, the one with the gold ring and black stone, and what he sees there seems to satisfy him.

"I have had many admirers who have courted me, sir; but that is all they seemed to want of my affections." Her cheeks are pink, Adam sees in the dark, flushed with strange blood.

"Why ever would my father kill….?" Yvonne's eyes catch and hold Harry's pleading for an answer.

"He and I, well, you must understand, on this world, there are only the two of us. He has always had a disdain for mortals, short lived and easily corruptible. It became all that he could see - that belief. I saw…great and terrible potential and I wanted to be a part of it, not merely a witness, or a watcher. So I became a part of this bloodline, our bloodline, I am never alone – for I am within us all, a part of humanity… your father –he hates what I did almost as much as what he was made to become. So he would see the score settled between us by killing all those he can and ensuring I would become as alone as he had been all along. I'm sorry; you are what you are, and you can not help but be it. You are succubus. I fear that you were born simply to hurt me." Harry doesn't look away when he says it, and Yvonne swallows down sickening bile.

"So be it! I pray, sir… that I live to help you more than to hurt." Yvonne looks down upon her two hands, as if seeing on them, herself for what and who she is, what she truly looks like, for the first time.

"What Azrael intended is not how I see my ends, Ms. Bradshaw. Tell me, what are you doing in a graveyard at night?" Harry looks around, as if noticing their surroundings for the first time.

"I'm the Headmistress of St. Hilda's School for Girls. This graveyard is where our chapel stands; I was patrolling the grounds as I sometimes do." Yvonne Bradshaw straightens with a small smile, proud of her job and its duties.

"Hot ma'am." Adam thinks, or thinks he thinks, when he realizes he's said it aloud, because Yvonne and Harry are staring right at where he is. Yvonne's eyes are narrowed and her lips a thin line.

"Hullo, Adam." Harry greets him, and by the way he says it, Adam can't tell how he feels about seeing him. It's nerve-wracking to say the least.

"Harry! A Lovely evening, isn't it? Lovely lady, too…." In Adam's experience it's not a bad idea at all to compliment a woman, but she sniffs, as if she smells something rotten.

"Who is this, Harry?" Ms. Bradshaw demands, sneering down at Adam – he thinks he might as well have told a snake it's shed lovely skin for all the trouble that he's saved himself from.

"What would be more accurate, a vampire, it is odd when one goes to school, so I thought it best to keep a eye upon him while he is at it. Whatever it is, I haven't muddled it out. There's a werewolf girl and a ghost about too, but Adam here is my assigned buddy, taking to his duties perhaps a tad too intrusively." If Adam had blood to spare, he's cheeks would be flushing dark enough to see tonight. As it is, he doesn't dare meet Harry's eyes.

"I'd say!" Ms. Bradshaw tsks, and pats Harry's shoulder before she turns to go back to where she came from. Adam recalls that she's a succubus, and wonders if Harry is going to lust after her. He doesn't know how he feels about it, somewhere between enraged and hurt. Neither does he know why he'd feel that way, not yet. Not when he has no reason to do so.

"I'll leave him to you, Harry. Do come to see me anytime you wish, it was a pleasure." Yvonne Bradshaw says over her shoulder, not seeing that Harry looks back at her, and that Adam is glaring.

"Ms. Bradshaw, do not fear to touch male flesh. Unless you will it so, they will not now desire your bed." Yvonne stops, bows her head, and if Adam was not a vampire he would not hear her whisper, bless you.

Harry turns to look at Adam, smiling as if he's heard her.

"How are you going to stop him, her father?" Harry doesn't ask how long Adam has been spying, he simply shrugs, and that's no kind of proper answer at all. Adam wonders if Harry will answer him, if he sees Adam as worth answering in anything. They aren't equals, Adam isn't foolish enough to think that – he's a vampire and Harry is…something else. Something Adam doesn't know what to make of. Yet.

Harry looks up at the heavens. Adam can't help but look up, the stars, planets, constellations, the bright moon, it's one of the few things in his life he's never tired of seeing.

"How many do you see?" Harry asks, so softly that Adam isn't sure he's heard him.

"I...I don't know, I've never counted, no one can, I think." Adam's answer is soft, hesitant, because if anyone ever has known, it's Harry, he's sure of it.

"Once, mortals saw the seven planets, and thought each sphere had a heaven all its own, one atop another. Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn. You've never wondered why there are seven days in a week called after them, even under the Old English gods and goddesses? Monday for the Moon, Tuesday for Tyr a war god much like Mars, Wednesday for Wodan, one might think Odin should be Jupiter, but no, he's too much like Mercury for the Romans to think him much like Jove. Thursday like Thor, the thundered, that one more like their Jupiter. Friday, for Frigg or Freyja, once they may have been one goddess, like Venus. Saturday for Saturn, Sunday for the Sun. So what do you think I will do?" Adam has always wondered what it meant, that sang about being in seventh heaven, where it came from.

He could have seen it for himself in the night sky each night, only he had never looked up long enough to put all the pieces together. Science had theorized now that there were different dimensions of space and time, were seven heavens than so farfetched? Adam wondered how much "modern day" knowledge was not "a new discovery" at all, but only so very old it had been forgotten and put aside as purely religious fantasy.

"Azazel has been upon Earth so long he forgets the heavens. Like you, like so many others of Earth. So I will remind him." Adam didn't doubt that Harry could do that, Adam had never had certain faith in anything or anyone, but he believed in Harry.

When Adam would have turned to look at him, he found Harry was no where to be seen.

Yet he was not gone, for Adam could never forget him.


	52. Lighting From Mars

**Lighting From Mars**

_HeidiFox_'s prompt: Harry as a protective spirit, summoned when the person wearing an heirloom feels deathly fear or is in need. there is a way to trick him into coming, up to you, but i insist that he is in a centaur like form in armor when he is called to protect! any pairings must be slash please!

(_If you've read my "Falling From Stars" ID# 2900231; this is a sort of "afterwards" of it; in Greek myth, the constellations Centaurus is Pholos, whose confused with Chiron; his wine cup is Crater ; Saggitarius is Krotos, a hunter and companion of Muses; and Melanippe a daughter of Chiron who was turned into a black mare and hid in the stars. I don't hold with any myth that Chiron ever died, as he was as much a god as Zeus, Hades, Poseidon, Hera, Hestia, and Demeter, who are after all his siblings._)

0o0o0

_"Remember, Firenze we are sworn not to set ourselves against the heavens. Have you not read what is to come in the movement of the planets?" –Bane_

0o0o0

Mortals who became Immortal by falling from stars, passing from one dimension into another, slipping and sliding, well, something from that mortality was bound to be broken, to fall with the Immortal. So Mars, who had been mortal once, a wizard, never learning fully what it meant to be either – went to his Immortality not knowing what he had lost and given away in that mortality.

Harry Potter he had been, a name unknown to him, but not without title of the Boy Who Lived.

It hung from by twined hair – his own, and that of Adios's. It shined like mercury made solid, softer than any silver metal, it was lightning; it was –had been - his scar.

Mars let his lightning fall but once – that once was enough. It was lost. It fell far and fast, foreword and back, and Mars was tied to it, ever after he would be bound by who held his scar, his heirloom.

Mars knew that not, until he felt a fear not his own, and heard a prayer, a plea, he had to answer to.

Mars he had been named by centaurs, by those he called kith and kin in Black Forest, by the Clan-Herd of Fleet-Foot, adopted by his mother Aswan, his sister Osakis, and his brother Hordi.

Mars after all, was not mortal, was Immortal, and shape and form did not define him – he defined his own shape and form.

So he felt it right and proper to take a centaur form when summoned by that wild fear and stinging, singing, need.

0o0o0

Firenze has his blond hair and blue eyes, and he stares at the sky. He is not nearly as wise to the ways of the heavens as Bane, but he knows what he sees, and what it means with Mars, shining bright and bloody.

He fingers the lightning of Mars, and wonders, worries.

It was an heirloom, as far as Firenze ever knew before. There are constellations that tell of its heavenly origins, stars which Bane knew the reading of better than Firenze. Firenze can read what is to come, what may be, the warnings and omens and small signs the heavens give so that the forewarned may be forearmed.

The Forbidden Forest is not the true name of the forest which sits beside Hogwarts, it's called _forbidden_ for the sake of little wizards and witches who might otherwise wander in.

So it is called to keep a peace. Firenze has ever heeded what is to come, rather than the history of what was. When he was a foal, Magorian had taken him far from this forest. Into another, the forest called Black.

There he had learned something of the history between heaven and earth, that there were Immortals, and once they had been many. Now there were three, the Maiden, the Mother, and the Grandmother; they did not give their names. Names the Immortals did not need, for mortals had given them many.

Firenze looked to Venus, which gleamed as a star, the first to be seen at dawn, the last seen at evening.

"They say lightning does not strike twice." Bane speaks softly, regretfully.

Firenze feels a sick, twisting jolt in his spine; he knows that Bane has told their people that he saw Firenze with a human burden upon his back, no more noble than a mule; a beast, not a being. His eyes catch Bane's dark ones. There is no warmth in them, only warning. It makes Firenze flinch, his tail twitching as if to swat away a stinging fly.

"The lightning does not heed what they say." Firenze had met the Lady-Grandmother, had felt her hands open his and close them upon the lightning he held, hanging from the twined hairs of Immortal men. She told him it would keep him safe, that it was meant to be where he would go. He wares it around his neck with pride. He is its entrusted keeper, the bearer of lightning that shines like mercury made solid, softer than any metal, an Immortal scar cast from the heavens.

"You would know. Firenze, you must go." Bane looks to the woods, they are still and dark, but the sky is bright with stars. The council can not have made his fate yet; they have until the evening star fades to call him, to tell him. One way or another….he would live, or die with Venus at dawn.

"This is my only home, Bane, where am I to go?" Bane does not come closer, does not dare. The forest may be dark, but its eyes are many, and its spies have reason to watch Firenze tonight. If he flees to live, he proves them - him –Bane, right, he's a beast; fearful of the judgment of his people against him.

A part of Firenze fears them; he can not lie to himself. They brought him into this world, raised him in the wood, and they can kill him with that same kindness.

"You can not stay here, Firenze, they will kill you. The Moon and Mars are bright, this is a poor night for any kind of council, and their madness is going to shadow every thought." Firenze swallows his sick feelings, he stands, steady and four footed and determined.

"I won't go, Bane. You know that." They had been foals together, and Ronan had taught them together as if they had the bond of brothers. If ever they did, it is because of that bond that Bane had warned him, and stands at his side until they hear the screams of centaurs, enraged and raging.

"I won't see you die like this Firenze. Don't ask it of me." Bane is bigger than Firenze, bulky and black and wild haired. He watches the woods, while Firenze cradles the lighting around his neck and looks to the sky.

"Skygazer." Bane pleads, the old foal name, before they chose their own names. Firenze can not help but smile, it is strained but sweet. Then the screams and stomping of hoofed feet, like thunder rumbling upon the land, making the entire world tremble, is upon them.

Firenze sees hooves flying to strike at his face from the corner of his eye, and jerks away – away from the hooves and away from Bane. One body, than another and another part them, Bane screams in the face of another, who draws a spear against Bane's protest. Bane is best with his bow and arrow, flank to flank he can do little, but Firenze holds the lighting, and it is weapon enough that he was never taught to fight.

A buck of hind hooves punches into his side, and Firenze falls, gasping for breath and speechless. Blunt fingers reach down, snatching the lightning, pulling it forward, up and away. He tries to take it back but his hands are held at his sides, his body pinned down, trampled upon.

_They are taking it!_ Firenze thinks, freezing like a foal.

But the hairs that bind it about Firenze's neck are Immortal, and they do not break. They drag Firenze up with the lightning. And he can't help but cry out at the pain digging into his neck- the hairs won't part, won't break, they would sooner take off his head with it.

_Help me, oh help me_! Firenze gets a look at the clenched hand that would take off his head by the lightning alone; and the stars above that frame the body of his killer. He can not see the face, it's all shadow and blurred.

But the stars, oh how bright they are – how beautiful (why did he never think them lovely?) if this is to be his last sight, it is not a bad night to die.

The lightning flashes in the hand that holds it, burning, blazing, and Mars is red, red as blood.

The screams of rage are now of fear.

"You will let him go, now." Firenze could not see the fellow centaur that would have taken his head, taken his lightning, but he sees who speaks, for the others – they shy from him. His shadow falls upon Firenze, and Firenze remembers long ago, that Magorian had told him – there are gods of centaurs, any Immortal can take any shape.

This shape suits him, Firenze thinks, if it is not his own, he wares it handsomely.

Black haired, as wild as Bane's but a body that was not big and muscled, but slender and sleek; centaurs rarely will wear anything over bare flesh, but this one he wears armor that shines golden under the moonlight, and his green eyes burn like fire. He is fierce and proud, and they know him one and all for Mars that burns at his back. He is Immortal, Firenze knows, and can not help but stare.

He plucks the lightning up, Immortal black hair twined with black, and the lightning that burns bright in his cradled hands like a star.

"Who are you?" Firenze can not help but ask, fruitless as it is to ask an Immortal to name themselves he must.

"In the Black Forest, those who raised me called me Mars." Something like a smile passes those solemn features, but it is fleeting. Mars takes up Firenze's hands, and into them passes his lightning bolt scar, his mortality, and his humanity.

"I shall guide you, Firenze, do not fear to walk away from the Forbidden Forest, to come and go as is your right. You are needed elsewhere now, but you may return, and if you are not welcomed, I will guide you where you will be." A star falls, and it catches the glance of the Immortal who smiles up at the heavens as if he sees them for something other than what they seem to be.

There are stories that go with the stars, but Firenze sees them as Mars does just for a moment, the black mare Melanippe hiding in plain sight, Krotos as he was rearing up, aiming his arrow down, down upon them all.

Pholos peers from the dark night, his offering wine cup a ready peace offering, poised and patient; centaurs all of them.

Mars smiles at him, as if he knows what Firenze has just seen though his eyes, and perhaps he has.

It is a secret he never speaks, but when Mars helps him to stand and steadies him as he proves his deeds as good as his words, guiding Firenze to a giant's hut, the gamekeeper's door.

Mars knocks, and Hagrid answers; his warm smile of greeting waning with the light of Venus as he finds Firenze upon his doorstep, beaten bloody and alone. Hagrid does not ask for a explanation, says nothing, as he stands face to face with Firenze and wraps a arm around his shoulder, hugging him tight and warm, like he's done something good.

Firenze finds himself being half walked, half carried into Hogwarts' main hall, where the staff are at breakfast. Madam Pomfrey at once sees the sight of him and with outrage in every word demands he be taken to the hospital wing, at once, and without so much as a word of explanation (what, hw wonders, is a hospital wing?) or a by-you-leave, it is done just as Madam Pomfrey wills.

Only when she says he's better, toward nightfall, does he get a visitor.

Albus Dumbledore, robed in stars, does not ask why, or how, for he is wise and has a mind and memory to know without being told.

"What do you want here, Firenze? I must warn you, Madam Pomfrey does not take kindly to her patients undoing her hard work." Albus smiles, to take the sting away. It still hurts, of course, not his body for Madam Pomfrey has her title of Healer for a very good reason. It's the rest, it's his heart that hurts, and yearns.

"A home, Headmaster." He'd want a home anywhere, but here is as good as anywhere – and better, better than the Forbidden Forest by far. Firenze does not quite trust that his people, merely at Mars's say so, will let him back into the forest to live among them so soon.

It will take a long while to heal the hurt in Firenze's heart, even if his people did not have to learn to forgive and forget while studying stars.

"So it'll be no worries." Albus pats his bare shoulder, looking to the starry sky, and Firenze wonders what he sees there.

"But, what do you want to _do_?" And Firenze understands, and looks from the heavens, seeing the blue in Albus' eyes, like the sky. It twinkles like the lightning.

"Teach." It feels like a plea, but it is what Firenze has been pulled to do all his life. Albus chuckles as he pulls a paper from his pocket.

"I thought you might say something like that, so I drew up the paperwork to make you a Professor, part time, for Astrology and Divination. How does that sound?" Firenze nods with wordless wonder, agreeing, signing his name where Albus Dumbledore wants, and in a flash of green fire, like the eyes of Mars winking, it is done.

He's home.


	53. I Spy, Alex Rider&Harry Potter

**I Spy**

**Teleprompter**:

Prompt:  
Alex Rider&Harry Potter

When Harry was young, there was a neighbor, Alex, who saved him one time  
Dudley was chasing him. When Harry returned from his first year at Hogwarts,  
Alex had left. Now, in London, Alex meets Harry.

0o0o0

The thing about Alex Rider is this; he's rarely been comfortable in one place for a long time. It's not the people, or the place, it's how he was raised. Most people, he had realized sometime between five and ten, stayed in one country their whole lives, spoke one language. As he got older he realized it wasn't simply one country, it was one village, or one town, or a city that people usually called _home _and meant it to be until they died. Alex had a hard time thinking like that. He didn't have a problem making friends, but they weren't the sort of friends Alex took to meet Ian. Alex could think of only one boy, who became his best friend the day Alex found him in his yard, hiding.

"Hello, are you okay? What are you doing in there?" There had been a shed in the yard, Ian didn't use it, and Alex had spotted the blur of black hair and slender body quite by coincidence making for the shed. Inside was all dark, Alex couldn't see anything because his eyes weren't adjusting between dark and daylight, and for a moment Alex felt silly, maybe he'd been mistaken.

Maybe the boy had slipped away as quick and easy as he'd come. Alex hoped there was someone, they'd had only lived here a few months, and nothing _interesting_ ever happened here in Little Whinging.

"Hiding." It was as faint as the wind that whisper. Alex thought he saw a glint of eyes in the shed, green as Easter grass.

"Why?" Alex asked, as he boldly looked about for what could cause a boy to hide in the dark.

"My cousin, Dudley and his gang are Harry Hunting…I'm Harry." Alex scowled into the dark, Ian's moving habits aside, his uncle had raised him with firm right and wrongs. You buckled up in the car, you didn't play outside in the dark, and strangers were just as dangerous as friends, and bullying was not done, you helped, you didn't hurt.

"Please don't tell them I'm here." Harry pleaded, soft and whispery, as if – if he spoke too loudly, someone would hurt him. Alex didn't like that, it was…wrong.

"I won't, promise, why don't you come inside the house? You can hide better in there than out here." Alex didn't dare come nearer, because he knew if he did, Harry, like some wild animal, would flee from him. Harry wasn't the type to fight. Or maybe he had good reason not to.

"Really?" Harry sounds hopeful, so much so that Alex knows he has to help.

"Yeah." He says, and means it - Alex gets a good look at Harry as he steps slowly into the sunlight, he's got black hair and great big green eyes – but maybe that's the thick glasses – he's wiry and slender to the point where Alex thinks Harry must be hungry. The urge to hide him in the house, to feed him, and to give him better cloths than the faded and worn ones that hang off him like he's a clothing rack. Alex notices all of it, even the sloppy stitching, and thinks of finding Dudley and his gang and giving them hell.

Alex doesn't say any of that, Ian says look, don't touch, and that it's rude to say what you think. So he leads Harry to the house, not looking backward until he's at the sliding glass door and pulling it open for him, and he sees Harry looking at the yard with its oak trees and flower beds. The people who lived here before Ian and Alex were gardeners with green thumbs, and it still shows. Alex keeps it behind his teeth, that Harry likes green and growing things, so he can think on it. Maybe invite Harry back with a yarn to do the yard work, earn some pocket money?

Alex heads to the den, where the TV is and sprawls onto the sofa, turning it on and waiting, feeling as if Harry might turn and bolt if he talks to him, or turns up the volume, or looks. Maybe it's all in his head, but Alex doesn't think so. He waits until Harry takes a seat, not on the sofa with him, but in one of two of the recliners; the one furthest from Alex and closest to the yard.

There is a sudden knocking on the door and Harry's wide eyes and very still, Alex tries to make light of it, putting finger to lips and getting up to see who it is. The boys at the door are all bullies, Alex can tell at a glance, from their sneering to their smirks. There are five of them - _Harry Hunting_ indeed.

"Hi, I'm Dudley Dursley…" Alex can hardly believe this boy, thick in the middle, with dull blue eyes, is _Harry's_ cousin. Alex lets his confusion show.

"So?" He says, hard and curt.

"I'm looking for my cousin, Harry, I think he may have come around your house do you mind if I…" Dudley starts pushing past Alex into the house, but Alex won't have it, using the leverage of the door to block him.

"No, I don't think so. You'd better leave, Dursley." Alex, before the bully of boy can get a word in edgewise; slams shut the door into his stupidly surprised expression.

"Well, that's that, do you want something to eat Harry?" Alex asks, smiling in satisfaction. Harry has a small smile on his face as he nods. Alex makes tea and they have biscuits and sandwiches.

Ian comes home and Alex asks his uncle to call Harry's uncle and have Harry sleep over. Harry seems surprised when it's allowed, but Alex doesn't see why he should be, as it's a weekend, and almost summer vacation. Alex vows to keep Harry over at his house, safe, because Alex isn't stupid and sees the bruises baggy clothes can't hide.

Ian says he's proud of Alex, because he sees that Harry is being hurt by his cousin, and maybe his uncle and aunt are blind to it, their son bullying their nephew. Ian promises to talk to them, and he does, but never shares what they've said to Alex. He only says that Harry's a orphan, and a orphanage would be worse than his home life, but Ian keeps a close eye on Harry when he gets a chance to see him. Ian listens, when Alex tells him that if Harry's going to Stonewall High, well, so is he. He doesn't argue, only nods thoughtfully.

Everyday until summer starts, Alex walks Harry from school, to 4 Private Drive, than to Alex's house, sometimes until dark, when Alex and Ian walk Harry home, most weekends, Harry spends with Alex.

Until, one day, the perfectly ordinary, no nonsense, hard hearted (and headed) Dursley's disappear – with Harry Potter.

They come back, but Harry Potter does not.

Alex knows Ian looks for him, and it doesn't give him any comfort, that the Dursley's could have gotten away with murder (there are, Ian tells Alex, no birth records of Harry Potter, and no school paperwork lists Harry Potter as living with the Dursley family, a huge oversight that no one knows how it could have happened) …murder, and no one will ever know enough to care - no one but Alex, and Ian.

Three days after they come back, Alex tells Ian he doesn't want to live in Little Whinging, not ever again; he's sick with depression and dread. He doesn't want to start in Stonewall High without Harry, so Ian moves them, and that's what Alex has come to expect, the moving, like running, never quite quick enough to leave that sick fear behind, never calling a place home.

Alex is now fourteen, his uncle Ian is dead, but he's living in London alone but for his housekeeper/friend/guardian Jack Starbright - when he sees Harry Potter again. He's in a crowd of red heads, tucked between one ginger with freckles and one brunette girl walking with her nose in a book. Harry and the ginger seem not to see anything wrong with that, taking turns guiding her around obstacles, like street curbs, sign posts, and other people walking down the side walk having the bad fortune to have to go by.

Alex sees him, and his heart flutters like a bird flying.

Alive. He's _alive_.

Alex can't help grinning like a loon, standing up from the restaurant's outdoor table, just to keep Harry in sight a little longer. He walks behind them, keeping Harry always in sight.

Alex can't help himself, spy or no spy, missions, bad people watching him just to manipulate him, governments with all their good intentions and ill gotten power – he doesn't care, Tom Harris takes Alex to be his best friend, because, yes, Alex saved him from his bullies – but, Harry… it Harry was who _taught_ Alex how to be his Tom's best friend, how to save him and make him strong, and Alex has always felt he failed Harry.

Harry and his red headed family and mousy haired girl seem to be going no where, as if they're touring London and seeing all the sights. They turn the corner up ahead, across the street, and for some reason – maybe Harry senses someone watching him, he turns his head and just for a moment, sees Alex Rider smiling across the street from him. Harry's green eyes go wide, and he stops right where he is – time enough for Alex to cross the street at a jog, and put his hands on Harry's shoulders, warm and alive under his palms.

"Hullo, Harry, been a while, hasn't it?" Harry, fourteen years old, hugs Alex like he's missed him, hard and long, and Alex's is glad he isn't the only one who has missed his best friend.

"Where'd you go?" Harry asks, hurt and happy all at once, and Alex – well, Alex could ask just the same question.

Alex keeps his eyes open, resisting any temptation to close his eyes and hold on tight – he sees the ginger boy and the girl glance at each other, sees twin red heads with wide eyes, the oldest boy smirks at him – the younger with a earring only raises a brow, a proper looking prat sniffs and looks around pointedly – and the girl, the youngest of what Alex must assume to be her brothers, she blushes red like her roots. The two adults, the man hugs the woman with a small smile. They think its sweet, Alex thinks, two teenage boys hugging in the middle of the street like idiots. Alex has never felt less like an idiot though.

"Here, mate, been waiting here for you all along – tried to find you, you know, but there isn't any record of your birth, or…or death, I was so _sure_ the Dursley's went off and killed you, Harry. I looked, Ian looked, but I couldn't find you, and…no one could do anything." Alex had never felt so helpless than that summer. He's hated the season ever since, but now…now he thinks he can learn to like it.

"No, I…I found a family, I guess you could say, went away to school, and…and when I came back to look for you, you were gone and there wasn't a trace of you." Alex, knowing what he does now about Ian (a secret agent, a government spy) can well believe it. Somehow, they've both survived, and Alex won't waste time with stupid questions like _how_ or _why_, or _where_ – because Alex knows a few things about keeping secrets.

Harry Potter is his biggest one, all strength and weakness wrapped up in one impossible person; Alex doesn't have to ask, because Harry being Harry _tells_ him all he needs to know, and more - magic, wizards, witches, wands, and Hogwarts – the Burrow.

It's a big one, but well worth it.

Alex finds out, after the Weasley family use the fire place – bidding goodbye to Arthur, Molly, and Ginny, Ron, Fred, George, Percy, Charlie, Bill; Hermione Granger steps aside with Alex just long enough while Harry says goodbye with handshakes, hugs, and kisses – to tell Alex, Harry will have to go back to the Dursley's this summer, if Alex Rider doesn't stop him.

Alex tells Harry, after Hermione's gone up in green flames with a wink that he's got a bedroom for Harry to stay in, and everything in his house has been lonely with just Jack and Alex to live in it. Harry's welcome to stay the night, since it's so late at night, he can go back to the Dursley's tomorrow, after he's eaten – and met Tom, of course, and than Ron comes over with Hermione and stay over with him, and than all four of them go to the Burrow and come back to Alex's house – which Harry calls home, and the next day Tom meets Ron and Hermione….before Harry realizes it, he's stayed the summer.

Jack (who Alex tells everything to, as there is no sense trying to lie to her) she calls every night of it to say Harry's staying over, of course, maybe he'll be back tomorrow – but, don't count on it.

Harry's home during the school is Hogwarts, but during the summer, it's Alex's house, and that's what makes a home.


	54. The Drums of Durmstrang

**The Drums of Durmstrang**

**Dui HbdH iuD:Prompt**: Marge thought the Potter boy, her nephew-in-law needed  
discipline. When Vernon, Petunia and Diddikins all die in a car accident,  
where better to send her 15 - 17 year old nephew than a military boarding  
school?

(_This left me scratching my head, as there wasn't a military boarding school mentioned in the request, and no way to contact Dui, either, so here you are – it's probably only vaguely what was wanted, sorry, sorry - this is mostly Marge's POV as I tend to think that like JK Rowling's mishap with the bulldog, Marge is misunderstood more than mean._)

0o0o0

"We…must make the best of this." Marge Dursley tells her nephew over the phone. The boy is very quiet, and Marge can only guess at what unpleasant things he is thinking about her. The boy doesn't know it, but he – as they say – wares his heart on his sleeve; she could without much study read his every thought by his face.

Most of them are unpleasant indeed. The boy isn't Dursley blood, but he was Petunia's and Marge loved her like a sister, and loved Dudley like the son Marge knows she will never have. So she sees it as her duty to do the best she can for the boy, for their sake.

"Yes, Aunt Marge." She knows that he may be in shock, they had all been coming to pick up Harry at King's Cross when it had happened, a otherwise happy homecoming becoming something tragic and cut short; he will likely be blaming himself. A stupid thing, but one the boy won't see past in his guilt. He's like that.

"I will see you soon Harry." Marge cuts the call short, for she doesn't like to use the phone and drive at the same time, and the sooner she gets there, the better off the boy may be. She finds him, sitting on his truck, cuddling with a white owl. Marge eyes the owl, and wonders why Vernon never told her the boy liked _birds_, a boy who makes a pet out of a bird will rarely like _dogs_. No wonder he and Ripper never saw eye to eye. The boy probably smelt of bird.

"What's her name than, Harry?" Marge asks, trying to be kind. He looks up at her through his messy hair, she'd told Petunia once that he ought to have it cut – the boy had lovely eyes, lively and intelligent, but wary, such eyes ought to be showed off, not covered up. Nothing ever came of it, so Marge never brought it up again.

"Hedwig, Aunt Marge." Harry was so unlike the rest of the family, the dark haired boy in a household of blonds, well, that was one difference, but he seemed not to understand what a family was. What it meant. Perhaps it was to be blamed on his mother and father, for dying so tragically, he had been a year old or so, young enough to have a impression, but not old enough to truly remember. Marge had noticed the lack of…closeness, it was Harry against Vernon and Petunia and Dudley, and how Petunia raised the boys, that was her business. Marge didn't dare think she could have done it better, she didn't want children for a good reason – too many were unwanted in the world, and if something should happen to her – her child would be just one more. Just like with Harry now.

"A fine specimen of _bubo scandiacus_, if I'm not correct…?" She thinks it better, to talk of small things, than to tackle the bigger issue. But Harry looks at her blankly and only nods his head; he doesn't know what to make of her attempts. Hedwig looks up at her, yellow eyed and wary. She seems to understand that Marge is grieving, and in her own way trying to reach out to Harry, who has just lost the last of his family. He hasn't, Marge has decided – he has her, blood or not blood kin – if he'll have her.

"Harry, come along with me now – do you have things you'd like to pick up?" harry looks to Hedwig and shakes his head. Marge has never seen where Harry slept as a child, nor now, and only now does she think that strange when she thinks back on it and remembers only Dudley's room.

She takes him for his word; she'll send movers in the morning to take the stuff to her so she can sort through it all – she knows the deed to the house goes to her now. She doesn't need the house – and Harry doesn't either – so she'll sell it and hopefully have a buyer before school starts.

Marge waves a hand for him to rise up and stand, and when he does she helps him to push his trunk of school things to the car. It fits snugly in the car trunk, and when Ripper sees Hedwig he starts yapping about her. Marge clicks her tongue, reminding Ripper he knows better than to bark at birds.

"How was St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys?" Marge asks, amused in spite of her words. She knows there is no such school, had known it the moment Vernon had mentioned it when the boy was thirteen. Marge knows very well how to find out information – and use a computer, even if Vernon did not seem to realize it.

"I…I wouldn't know, Aunt Marge, I've never gone there." Harry, sitting in the passenger seat, looks to the window, watching the world go on without his family in it. Marge tries not to dwell on that, so must push the boy to do the same. It would do neither of them any good to fall into a depression.

"Is that so? Where do you go Harry?" Harry's mouth works, opening and closing, but he is speechless, as if he doesn't know if he should, Vernon likely would not want him to, if Marge knows her little brother well. Petunia had had her secrets – and in all the world, she'd told only Vernon about her sister, and Harry.

"It's a magical school, isn't it? Probably, oh, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…hmm?" Marge had known, not because of Vernon, but because what properly raised squib son and daughter of so-called purebloods would not remember being inflated, memory was a tricky thing – and memory modifiers could be tricked.

"Yes, Aunt Marge, how…how did you know?" Harry was all wide green eyes and wild black Potter hair.

"Have you not heard of squibs? Vernon and I were raised to be pureblood witches and wizards, rich, wealthy, proud – it's why I was so disgusted with Petunia's sister, marrying into a wealthy family, just the same, just as otherwise worthless. If you have wealth Harry, you should not just live off it, you should do something worthy with it. Vernon and I, our names were burned off our family tree, we took new ones…starting over, as muggles, with nothing…practically orphans, was a hard lesson to learn." Marge doesn't know if Vernon ever told Petunia or their boy this, but it's clear they never told Harry. She feels at once cold at that, she remembers all the little otherwise worthless gifts she gave him – worthless, perhaps, but with hidden meaning – meaning he wouldn't know how to figure out because he didn't know they were messages.

"I…I never knew, Aunt Marge." She sees him sneaking glances at her, shy and unsure, as if her words might be a trick. It bothers her, that Harry doesn't say anything to challenge her, to stand up for himself. Marge thinks of Vernon, and Dudley, and how big they are compared to Harry and wonders if what she thought was harmless family hassling was bullying. It left her cold.

"Well, how would you if no one ever told you? Tell me about Hogwarts?" Harry does, focusing on Hogwarts because it's supposed to be safe, and a home away from home. Marge keeps her eyes on the road, making all the correct little noises that prod along a conversation without ever saying anything. As they travel along, her grip on the steering wheel gets tighter and tighter, until she sees her white knuckles and forces herself to swallow down her rage at wizards ands witches who are supposed to be wise and powerful – and are making Harry Potter into no more than a martyr. She says not a word.

"Where would you have gone to school, if you had been a witch?" Harry asks, and Marge Dursley meets his eyes. She wants him to be safe and strong, and it's clear that he can't be either at Hogwarts – so she'll save him, even if it makes him hate her. She hopes, one day, that he'll understand.

"The Durmstrang Institute, and now that you'll be living under my roof you'll go there as well, there is –after all - no sense in sending you so far away every year." Harry's hands shake as he pets Hedwig, but he doesn't meet her eyes again – or say a word until she shows him to his rooms; a bathroom, a sitting room, a bedroom, an empty closet room that she intends to fill with clothes for him. He says only a small _thank you_, and she leaves him to get settled in hoping that his trunk indeed has everything he needs for now.

Marge goes first to the kitchen, where Cannelle Dóttir looks up with flour on her face. Marge tries very hard not to smile or giggle, keeping her lips in a firm line while Cannelle raises a brow and waits to hear what Marge has to say.

"My dear, how's supper coming along?" Marge leans in the doorway, eyeing the kitchen, its Cannelle's domain and she's welcome the charge of it. If left to her own cooking, Marge knows very well she would rather starve.

"Fine, fine, how's the poor boy?" Marge doesn't bother to hide anything from Cannelle, and it shows. Cannelle doesn't gossip, but she knows just about everything that happens to anyone.

"In need of a good supper, do you recall where I put those owl-papers?" Marge asks of her Elle, because her memory is better than any sorting system. It used to be anyone who did calculations of complicated math figures from memory was called a computer; now it was a machine, but Elle's memory was better than anything when it came to all the little bits and pieces people didn't pay enough mind to.

"In your study Marge, probably with the letters Vernon sends." Marge nods thoughtfully and goes on her way, and isn't surprised at all when Elle is right about where she put the things. She gets the owl post, and so knows just what it means that Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived and why the Dark Lord is after him. She just never thought of Vernon's Harry as _that_ Harry. It does strangely fit though.

_Minister Cornelius Fudge,_

_I have in my keeping Harry Potter, my ward after the event of the death of Petunia Dursley, her husband Vernon – my brother – and my nephew and their son, Dudley due to a recent automobile wreck. _

_I am shocked and appalled at the low standards at Hogwarts' security and negligent of duty toward the safety of students such as Harry Potter. I hold the staff personally accountable for the events of the rising of the Dark Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle, former student and graduate of Howarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

_He will not be enrolled in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this coming term or ever again while I live,_

_Sincerely,_

_Sgt. Marjorie Dursley_

Marge smiles grimly, wondering who might remember her as the inflated Aunt. No matter, she takes up pen and paper to Drumstrang Institute.

_Head of Drumstrang Institute_

_Due to the dire events of the Triwizard Tournament, and the treatment of Harry Potter by Hogwarts staff and the Ministry of Magic afterwards, I have taken him out of Howarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He has recently lost his Aunt Petunia, his Uncle Vernon and cousin, Dudley in a wreck due to a reckless driver. I feel a change of surroundings is best for him. _

_I ask if it is possible for Harry Potter to be enrolled into Drumstrang Institute this year._

_My thanks,_

_Sgt. Marjorie Dursley_

It was done, all the t's crossed and i's dotted. Marge wonders if Harry ever told Vernon or Petunia what happened to him at Hogwarts – and knows he didn't - a fault on both their parts.

Marge smiles at the letters, feeling a light of accomplishment, and wonders what Colonel Fubster will make of all this. Marge goes to see Harry, as it's only right he sees what she does for his sake – she knocks on the door, and when it opens, Harry blinks up at her, as scruffy and messy as always.

"Here you are Harry, send these off with Hedwig if you would? Feel free to take a look, if you want." Harry looks down and reads the letters, one after another, still strangely pale but ties them to Hedwig and tells her where she is to go. He says not a word to her. It's frustratingly annoying, when Marge feels she's going out of her way to help, as if he expects it.

"Well, haven't you anything to say?" Marge prods, and Harry looks to her – soon he'll be looking down instead of up, but for now he still has to look upward rather than at.

"I…I never knew how you felt about me, how they did, it's just always seemed I was a bother and a burden they didn't want." His tone dares her to change his mind. Marge frowns down at Ripper who is always at her heels, unnoticed and protective; it took him ages to teach her not to trip on him. Family can be like that too.

"Harry, your sensitive, you've been that way since you were a boy, something's your so obvious about, like Dudley. You remember when you were five and it was his birthday? A little boy shouldn't be outdone by anyone on his birthday, of all days." Marge sighed, it didn't make it right, what she had done – but both Harry and she had hit it off wrong at that first meeting. Harry had dreaded seeing her ever since. He'd never understood her, and she hadn't gotten to know him enough to think well of him.

"The Christmas presents of a box of dog biscuits, I thought Petunia and Vernon would let me give you a bulldog pup, I had one picked out and trained – but they didn't let me see you again until he was grown, and spoiled. Ripper was supposed to be yours, you know." Harry looks down at the full grown dog, and frowns, looking the first time as if he's really thinking about Ripper as a pet and not as a menace.

"But you stepped on him and ran away from him when he chased you, I thought you'd wise up and stop running when he just ran around and around, but you went up that tree and wouldn't come down. He's never bitten you, but, you were a boy, I don't blame you for being afraid of a bulldog you've never met - though, boy's need training, like pups. You just weren't taught right from wrong, Vernon and Petunia may have tried, may have meant well, but they loved the idea of each other and a family more than the reality." It's a sad truth, and Marge won't say more than that about the dead until they are buried, but it's a start to heal a rift between Harry and her.

"So you see, you didn't fit, and you didn't want to fit either. You're a wizard, and they were not – I am not, but your one of mine, blood or not, so long as you live under my roof – and I won't have you living on the streets. So, I will do what is best for you, no matter if you like me – or it – or not. I hope you understand, Harry." Marge thought the boy had gained back some of his color, and he met her eyes as he spoke.

"I do, Aunt Marge. I'll try my best, if you do." Marge smiled, for it was as good as a start as she could have asked - a sliver of trust that could grow to be a bridge between them.

"Very good, Harry." Cannelle's dinner bell chimes and Ripper leads the way to the kitchen with a joyful bark. Harry flinched, but she thought he might in time learn the meanings behind a bulldog's bark, for her dogs did not bite.

"Come along, supper's done I think." Marge found she was secretly pleased when Harry walked beside her, keeping a smooth pace with her stride.

Cannelle had set up a proper feast on the table, neither knowing what the boy might like or not, so there was a little of everything –Harry watched as Marge made up her plate and went outside with tea and coffee; Cannelle had already set out the picket blanket. The dogs were out and about and she set aside her tea for the dogs, having never cared for Britons most famed drink. It wasn't very British of her, but her dogs were very British so she thought it rounded out in the end.

"What kind of magical sports do you like, Harry?" Elle asked, as he sat between her and his aunt.

"I, uh, play Quidditch as Seeker, I've played since First Year, and the youngest Gryffindor in a century Professor McGonagall said." Harry should be proud of that, and Marge knows he is or he wouldn't have mentioned it – but he lacks confidence, it sounds to her ear as if he's asking for an approval. Drumstrang will give him confidence, instead of simply reacting to danger; he'll act with some knowledge behind him instead of gut instinct. He's got good instincts, but those aren't enough to keep him alive with what's coming with the rebirth of the Dark Lord.

Marge has seen war, acted and reacted in it - and she knows the difference.

"As you were in the Triwizard Tournament, I'm not surprised, tell me, did you get to know their Champion Viktor Krum? He's Seeker for the Bulgarian National Quidditch team, if I recall correctly?" Elle nudges Harry with her shoulder, smiling gently as he stares at her in surprise. Marge may not have cared much what had happened in the world outside muggles, but Elle was a witch who had exiled herself – for reasons Marge never asked after.

"Yeah, I know him; he danced with my friend Hermione, and really got Ron steaming. It was funny." It's the first time Marge sees Harry smile, warm with memory, and she thinks she'd like to see it more often. She thinks she'll invite Harry's friends –and the Krum boy to her house, perhaps for the day – just so Harry knows he's not being isolated or stolen away from them. It's danger she wants to keep him from, not friends.

If his smile is any indication, he'll settle in and fit, and thank her in the end.


	55. The Seeker's Secret

**The Seeker's Secret**

May Eve

Prompt:

And anything straight HP with a Harry/Marcus Flint or Percy Weasley pairing would be welcome.

-Non-sexual dom!Harry if Percy, maybe mildly sexual but preferably not topping-from-the-bottom!Harry if Marcus. It can be as funny or angsty or fluffy as you like otherwise, although I'd never say no to a Weasley cameo.

(_So, uh, here I'm going to hope Harry/Marcus/Percy is okay-dokie?_)

0o0o0

Percy isn't on the Quidditch team, so he really hasn't got a good reason – if asked - to why he sticks around after the Gryffindor-Slytherin match ends. He'd never tell either. Percy doesn't often lie, because he doesn't have to. He sees far more than he'll ever say. But if he has to, he'll lie, and lie better than anyone – for them.

Percy sees it when Harry makes his way out of his team's locker room. Percy follows like a shadow, needy and greedy, because he just can't help himself. It happens every time Slytherin's in a match by itself or Gryffindor is, but most especially when the two play together, that's when Percy can't miss this.

One of them will leave the lockers last and go to meet the other, who is waiting, alone, one of them being Marcus – or Harry. It makes him sick with jealousy – and envy – what he sees every time without fail, no matter what team wins or looses; but he can't… simply, can not choose to just walk away and ignore it like everyone else does.

He tells himself that it's his duty as Head Boy to see that they are safe, or its Gryffindor house loyalty to Harry, or looking out for his all but adopted brother, Harry Potter. Percy knows those are lies though, the truth is…watching them is addicting.

Percy pads quietly after Harry as he makes his way to the Slytherin lockers, and Marcus greets Harry in the doorway with a kiss. It's sweet and simple, until Harry tangles his fingers into Marcus's hair and bends him down to his height and silently demands more. Harry never begs. He doesn't have to. Marcus gives everything, anything to him, kneeling now down there in the doorway, his knees hitting the dirt or mud, where anyone might see if they hid in Percy's place.

Percy's vowed to protect them from that chance; he'll keep watch and wait with them. He's in on it, this secret, it's his too, and maybe one day it will be theirs.

Harry looks over his shoulder, knows that Percy is watching, always, but he doesn't ever ask why.

Percy can't help it, wondering if Marcus knows too - if this is display is some joke played on him, to see when it'll be that Percy seeks out the Seeker. Percy shivers and doesn't take his eyes away from them, not once. He stares until they walk out of sight, wishing for what he can not say.


	56. Midgardsormr, LoTR&HP

**Midgardsormr **

Haltia's prompt:

Harry as a (shape-shifting) dragon, takes an interest in something pretty and sparkly and just wants to keep it to himself. Possibly cross-over with LotR, with the pretty-sparkly being, for example, Glorfindel, or Haldir, or ever-cliche Legolas. It could also be set in Temeraire.

(_Midgardsormr means "Midgard Serpent", Midgard refers to Middle Earth in Old English. It's an Old English kenning for __Jörmungandr. Tokien calls his fire-serpents uru**loki**. So it seemed fitting. Dragons on Middle Earth have never quite been explained in origin, at least not to my satisfaction._

_Also, if you do not have some knowledge of The Hobbit's endings (that being the book) or of The Silmarillion it may get confusing, but basically LotR never went into the history of Middle Earth's origins the way that Christopher Tolkien has published in his father's notes. Take a peek at "One Wiki To Rule Them All" if you want to learn more as the story goes on.) _

0o0o0

He hatches from the shards of the Heart of the Mountain, the Arkenstone broken before the eyes of hobbit, dwarf, man and elf alike, the son of Smaug breaths his first breath – and opens green eyes to see.

He is weak and panting, helpless, a slender serpent that can be cradled in the hands of any of them. All may see him at this, his weakest moment, his birth. But it is the elves _he_ sees first, shinning in shades of gold and silver, their hair no matter. It is within that he _sees_. They are all lovely.

His treasures, better and more brilliant than Smaug's greedy accounting of the Lonely Mountain's gold and gemstones, mithril and silver, elf gems, pearls, the many faceted crystals of emerald, sapphire and diamond. Here is a treasure greater than that hoard, for he alone of his kind has had the eyes to see it first.

None of his kind has been born outside his or her Mountain, with no nest to see; he lies in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain, Erebor, and knows he is lost - lonely, perhaps the last of his twisted kin.

"Midgardsormr." Is a hiss, a word, a name? He hears it, and it is _his_. He flicks his forked tongue out in pleasure, to taste the Middle Earth he is serpent of. It is pleasing. His birth ends a battle, as before – but he does not remember before – or is it a life that will come after this? A dwarf that looks down at him in some dismay; without him within it, the Arkenstone does not shine, is nothing more than a brittle rock, worthless. He has been told of this one by Smaug, this is Thorin Oakenshield, dwarf prince.

"I am not sorry I am not what I was." Midgardsormr tells the dwarf, who looks surprised that he speaks. Of course he speaks, Smaug spoke, so he does, do they not all hear the song of Eru?

"I would not think you would be…was it always you within the Arkenstone?" Thorin asks as he picks the dragon up from the broken shards. Midgardsormr tucks his forelegs beneath his chest, keeping his wings pressed against his back, breathing in the fire and the air. His scaled skin is wet and weak, and he is cold, and he knows he must dry off by this fire to have the hard scales of his kind and fire kindled within him, to make his breath burn.

"Of course I am the Heart of the Lonely Mountain, Smaug came because I was found, and I was not supposed to be. It was too soon." _This_ is too soon, Smaug would still say. Much too soon, and perhaps this is why he remembers being a wizard – and the before after of being more and greater, like and unlike theIstari who were the chosen messengers among the Maiar, those lesser among the Ainur who are helpers of their great Valar kin.

"I am cold, Olórin. Am I to die?" Midgardsormr asks of him, and the wizard's puff of breath catches like a cloud in the stillness of the night. It forms a ring, he alone sees the serpent biting it's own tail, endless, a warning – and a hope, perhaps. Thorin looks guilty, and holds him out for Olórin, who smokes a pipe and is nearest to the fire, to take. The Istar does so, cupping both hands together and Midgardsormr carefully slithers in-between those cavern like palms, Olórin brings them to his knees, and from there Midgardsormr can see them one and all.

"It has been a long time since I have heard that name, little uruloki. I have had many names, Man calls me Gandalf, Elves name me Mithrandir, and the Dwarves favor Tharkûn. How do you know _my_ name?" Midgardsormr still shivers, but Olórin holds him, cradles him, coddles him, if he had hatched before Smaug as he has now – Smaug would have ate him – but he is slowly thawing from the cold of Void that calls to him. Eru's song is greater; a song rises within him to answer. It is not merely duty, it is who he is, a destiny of who he will be.

"I hear the song, the One God Eru sings." In it, he does not have to tell this Istar, is _everything_…

"He speaks of Ilúvatar." It is an elf who speaks, Midgardsormr purrs approval, while Olórin looks down upon him in amusement. There is a gentle teasing in those grey sky eyes. The Istar lets him loose from his hands and Midgardsormr rises up, green eyes shining in the firelight, all black scales and gilding ruby red-edged. He tries to be as big as he can be, wings stretching out, the air tugs upon them playful and inviting. He is dry enough to warm himself now.

"Of course he does. No, Midgardsormr, I think you will live as long as it pleases you to do so." Midgardsormr glances to Olórin over his shoulder, asking the Istar with his eyes if he can fly. Olórin tilts his head in acknowledgement, Midgardsormr may try, and if he fails this first flight, Olórin will ensure he comes to no harm.

Midgardsormr does not flap his wings, he is not a bird, instead he falls with wings wide open, a fall that is no fall at all, but a glide that takes him to the shoulders of the elf who had spoken. Thranduil he is. Elvenking. Pretty.

Midgardsormr's purr becomes something like a rumble, and he tucks his head under Thranduil's chin and bumps his head under it, playful. An elf who stands nearby, watching all this, laughs, and from that laugh Midgardsormr knows Glorfindel. Who is also Midgardsormr's of course. All the elves are - they simply don't know it yet.

Thranduil offers his hands, and Midgardsormr goes into them, elf and dragon look at each other, eye to eye. Their stares are neither serious, but rather curious. Bard, the man, chuckles and doesn't hide his grin when Thranduil looks to him with raised brows.

"Have you yet hatched a dragon, slayer of Smaug?" Bard shrugs his shoulders, as if he could not have done either differently. What is done is done, and Bard isn't the sort to be guilty over an Elvenking's ego.

"On this day, and no other, I pray." Midgardsormr meets the man's gaze, and think it best they know how he came to be.

"I will be the last of the uruloki, the fire serpents, those born of the Secret Flame of Eru Ilúvatar. As Melkor twisted Maiar to be Balrog, so he twisted those Ainur who would have been Valar had he not bred and tricked and twisted them into Uruloki. Eru's thought brought me last from the Void, so I am last born of those worthy to be called uruloki in truth." Thranduil runs a finger along Midgardsormr's spine, making him shiver away from those most dark memories. If it was wondered why dragons were twisted, greedy and terrible, what he spoke was true – but not the whole truth. He hissed softly, making it clear he would not speak of it further.

Olórin's eyes are heavy with sympathy. Midgardsormr would not see him weep.

"And what will you now do, little uruloki?" It is not the Elvenking who asks, but Glorfindel. As it is an elf that asks, Midgardsormr is pleased to answer.

"I will go with you to greet Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, but of course." Glorfindel's smile is slight, but his nod noble.

"Of course…" While Mirkwood is still the larger forest dwelling of the elves, Lothlórien is by far lovelier.

"We will go now, while there is time to flee from the Battle of Five Armies." Midgardsormr insists, sad sounding, and only Olórin sees the small dragon's true distress.

"Neither of us, small one, is born crowned with the power we will one day have." Olórin tells him, as Thranduil passes Midgardsormr to Glorfindel. He goes willingly, for it is where he wants to be -where he must be.

"What I once had, Olórin, I will have again, it is mine and I will not waste what little time is left with waiting." Midgardsormr flicks his tongue determinedly, and glances to the hobbit. His tail twists at what he senses. There is perhaps just enough time for him to grow to be as powerful as he promises. Dragons grow too slowly, this they both know. So Midgardsormr must be other, stranger, shape-changer. With the Lord and Lady's blessing he might just manage it.

He perches upon Glorfindel's shoulder and tries not to dig his claws in when the golden haired elf stands and walks away from the fire, going to where the white elf-steed Asfaloth awaits. The elf mounts with an ease and grace that fills Midgardsormr with envy.

"To Lothlórien." Glorfindel urges Asfaloth, knowing he will be obeyed by his elf steed. Such steeds can race the wind, and are thrice more swift. So he knows as dawn breaks, that he will be where he desires before nightfall.

It had never been known – even among Glorfindel's own wise people – not one of them dared guess why dragons did as they willed, winged or wyrms or drakes, they had a cunning intellect, dangerous and arrogant, and no elf dared match wit or wisdom with them. One wrong word and a furious dragon knew no mercy.

Not since Glaurung had done such terrible deeds unto Nienor and Túrin had any elf dared. How they were born, raised – perhaps none butMorgoth was ever meant to know.

Glorfindel does not fool himself, he knows the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien will not in the least like what he has done, but they would like it less if Glorfindel made his way to Imladris, where Elrond dwells, the father of their only grandchildren.

Asfaloth is his only warning, slowing from his running to a trot, and than a walk that stops short before a marchwarden, younger than Glorfindel.

"Do you need a guild, Lord Glorfindel?" Haldir asks of him, eyeing the dark limbed thing that clings beneath his neck. Midgardsormr has twisted himself about so that his head and tail can only be seen, the rest of him nests in golden hair.

"I do not, no; I thank you for your asking." Glorfindel allows, and Asfaloth walks onward at a pace Haldir follows at. It seems even if he does not need a guild, he will have an escort. He can abide this company; comfortably warm ringed about his neck, Midgardsormr sleeps. Him, no elf can miss seeing. It is right that Haldir be curious and cautious.

"What have you about your neck, my Lord?" Glorfindel is not blind; he has seen the glances Haldir thinks he's sneaking. He hides his smile.

"A newly born dragon, hatched from the Arkenstone of Erebor." As if summoned by someone speaking about him, Midgardsormr stirs to waking. Haldir stops, stilling with his surprise, but he hurries to keep up with Asfaloth, and so the dragon sees him.

"Oh, hello there, you are lovely." It is to Haldir that the dragon speaks, but Glorfindel sees the marchwarden's eyes are wide and silver. His hair is the kind that is silver in the moonlight, and golden with the sun. Glorfindel has always his golden hair, with day or with the dark.

"Thank you?" Haldir asks, speaking only to be polite, but staring at Glorfindel as if asking this is some low joke.

"Oh, I like you, you're nice to look at _and_ nice to speak to, Glorfindel, may we keep him?" Midgardsormr urges with a lick to his cheek, and the older elf can't stop his smile this time.

"_We_, little one…? I am to be yours as well?" Haldir looks so quickly between the two; it's almost as if he's shaking his head. It's much absurdity, but Glorfindel is curious to what the little dragon thinks. His mind, like that of his kith and kin none of them knows – save perhaps Mithrandir the Istar whom the little dragon called Olórin with such familiarity.

"Why, of course you are mine. All elves I would protect, for I was supposed to have you in my charge, had I not been…" Midgardsormr's words stumble to a halt, and he is silent and still, stunned. Glorfindel reaches to touch him reassuringly and the little head rubs fondly against his palm, scales scratching and dry and warm.

"So be it, Midgardsormr. We will let you have our keeping." Glorfindel winks to Haldir, who blinks and smiles timidly in return. Elves are fond of the young, for rarely do they have them immortal as they are, elves have little fear of dying without a legacy. Against his skin, Midgardsormr purrs.

He purrs all the way to the heart of the elfdom of Lothlórien, Caras Galadhon, where Lady Galadriel and her silver haired Lord Celeborn greet them. They are both lovely and healthy and Midgardsormr flies to land upon Celeborn's open hand. His wings folded against his side, he lowers his head in a nod of acknowledgement, of debt and duty.

Celeborn returns the nod, accepting it, graceful and peaceful. It was the wisdom and peace that Galadriel so loved. The elves had had their immortality, but they had been a scattered and scared people, both helpless and powerful by turns throughout the Ages, and no Valar had truly claimed to guide and protect them as their own. The Maiar had tried, but in the end had been not enough. Kings and queens arose from the first elves found, to lead and protect their people – and these two, Lord and Lady they may claim for a lowly title, but were of highest birth.

"Forgive me, Lady." Midgardsormr looks Galadriel in the eye, and does not look away until she nods in solemn acceptance. She does not like it, does not like _him_, but will not forbid him, will not deny what he is – or was supposed to be.

"How can I not? Ages here will the past of my people; soon we will go home, to the Undying Lands, where the Ainur, Valar and Maiar alike, are awaiting us. I wonder what they will make of _you_." Galadriel leaves them at those words, walking away into the mallorn, silver wood trees with golden leaves.

She leaves, and Glorfindel must bite his tongue, least Celeborn turn to look at him in sorrow. Haldir, at his side, shifts uneasily.

"Midgardsormr…" Celeborn looks after his wives back, proud and straight, and suffering still from the loss of their daughter. Elrond had healed her, her body, but her mind was beyond his power – so Celebrían had gone to the Undying Lands, leaving her daughter Arwen to be brought up in Lothlórien. Leaving sons and husband, father and mother, fleeing from Middle Earth and the memories of what orcs had done to her; of what she would not – could not - speak.

Celebrían went, and Galadriel could not –dared not – follow. She knew her youthful ambitions would not lead to a warm welcome.

Orcs had once been elves, as Midgardsormr an uruloki had been Ainu, could have been one of the Valar. Some would forever see his corruption, he who should have been their keeper, guide and guardian, as the cause of their sorrows.

"Midgardsormr, are elves not Children of Ilúvatar?" Celeborn asks, tucking a finger under the dragon's chin so he could look him in the eyes.

"Of course, Celeborn." Midgardsormr agreed, for that was the fact of it.

"All Children of Ilúvatar have their own minds, and must be made accountable for their actions, for we made them knowing what the will of the Ainur was. You would not have stopped us, just as they could not." Celeborn spoke, scratching under the uruloki's chin to calm him.

"I could have been there. That might have been enough." Midgardsormr closed his eyes, pained.

"This I greatly doubt. Our people are a stubborn sort." Celeborn had a point, for what an elf willed to do, he or she did, and few could stand in their way and say _nay_. Their power made them akin to the forces of nature.

"Tell me Midgardsormr, why do you come to Lothlórien?" The dragon lay curled in the palm of the elf Lord's hand, and Glorfindel hoped he never saw the little dragon so helpless and forlorn looking again. As if he did not know if there was a place for him here, his elves had grown fair and far away from him. He was the newly born into this world, not they, yet he still felt they were _his_.

Glorfindel would rather Midgardsormr be in _their_ care, to guide and protect him.

"To seek Irmo though Lórien, Lothlórien is as close as I may ever come to being within it, it felt safest to seek Olórë Mallë here. If I may..?" Midgardsormr, for the first time, sounds as small as he is.

"If it is he you seek, far be it from me to hinder you." Midgardsormr bowed his thanks, and flew into the mallorn trees, to sleep and follow Olórë Mallë, the Path of Dreams to Lórien the garden of Vala Irmo, Master of Dreams and Desires. Glorfindel settles to sit at the base of that tree, wiling to wait and guard his sleep so he is not disturbed.

Midgardsormr flies, and as he flies he knows he is dreaming, for he is singing and though his surroundings are timeless and lovely, he does not stop to stare at them. Through tall trees and above the path of small pebble stones he follows, it leads to a high gate of lattice-work, shining golden in dark. Beyond them in truth Irmo awaits, in the Gardens of Lórien. He goes swiftly through the opening gates, and Irmo stands in the path before him. Midgardsormr lands on the river pebbles before the Vala. Irmo crouches down, kneels to meet him.

"How _small_ you've grown, youngest brother." The little dragon flinches, green eyes not meeting those of Irmo.

"Thank you, brother, for keeping my people well." Irmo reaches out and touches smooth black scales, where he touches like dust and ash, the black falls away, underneath is silver and gold. Irmo smiles to see it.

"I did what I could, we all did, for we remembered you, and feared for you. I will tell our brother Námo, he will be glad – he feared always that the Halls of Mandos or the Door of Night would take you before he or Nienna found you. Estë, my lady, she should see to your rest, none among us is a greater healer." Irmo smiles at the thought of his wife, as if his smile is a summons, she comes up the path behind him. She sees them, and Midgardsormr, clad in scales of gold and silver, can not hide from her.

"Oh, what has that Melkor Morgoth done to you? You are so _small_!" It is not his body she speaks of, this he knows, but his power, his presence, no Valar – and that is what he is, or was – would be so lessened as he, less than a Maiar.

"I am not what I was, Estë, forgive me." She bend to pick him up, cradling him close, breathing upon him, to give him unasked, a part of her power. With his touch, Irmo had already done as much. Her skin is damp from Lórellin, her lake. She had to have been in its waters, bathing, when Irmo called to her with his thoughts. She had come swiftly - as swiftly as Irmo has left, likely to gather the rest.

"Midgardsormr they call you? Nay, you are Narsil, the Sun and Moon, if Melkor had not taken and twisted you, you would not merely be Vala as I am, but Aratar, one of the most Exhalted. Arcala you are, the royal light. When we found Arda without light, the more fool Aulë was, to make the tower Helkar for the lamp Illuin, and Ringol to hold Ormal." Estë kisses his brow, and Aulë comes to stand beside her, smiling with Yavanna on his arm. Lord of Arda, the Earth, was he – and she, the Queen of Earth, the Giver of Fruits. They were a powerful pair, both being of the eight Aratar.

"That was long ago Estë. I have learned to wait, after Melkor felled the towers and darkened the light of the lamps. I did not dare seek a greater nature then what I was." Aulë's nature is much like Melkor, so much so they have always hated each other. Yet both make great things – Melkor's are terrible, but great.

"Narsil, will you come greet me?" Yavanna smiles serenely, offering her palm for Midgardsormr's perch. He joins her gladly, unable to help purring. Aulë chuckles, not bothering to hide his amusement – but Midgardsormr can not help it. He had not hoped to be as welcomed as this by them. Aulë pets him, eyeing his scales gleefully. He is the greatest smith of the Vala and Midgardsormr fears his silver and gold hide has given the Lord of Arda ideas.

"I sung the trees silver Telperion and golden Laurelin to life upon the hill Ezellohar, but your sister Nienna's tears, for hope and healing, kept them alive. Such was her hope for you; it was…a lovely time." Yavanna and Aulë hold him between them, while Estë smiles.

They give him, freely, what power they gained from the making of things that are within his nature, he grows from small and palm fitting to the length of Aulë's arm, and the width of his waist, his wings flutter, spreading silver and gold light across the dark, like shedding stars.

Isil, the Moon, the last flower of silver Telperion, guided by a Maia youth Tilion is dim in comparison.

"I hope I did as you would have wanted, brother, and did not overreach what you would have willed." Nienna herself speaks, and weeps, her tears joyful at this long hoped for welcoming. To her Midgardsormr goes willingly, she will never need to ask for his company, he will give it willingly, always.

He chirps at her, teasingly chiding. She boldly kisses his nose, and he is surprised into silence. Her power makes him grow to be too big to hold, the length of her long legs. Still she does not let him go, an Aratar need not obey laws of physical possibility.

Námo, lord of Halls of Mandos, has a laugh like thunder – only rarely is it heard, and he knows it and tries never to laugh – for it causes fear in lesser Ainu, to speak nothing of mortals, and he is well aware of that. That he can not help it pleases his siblings, if none of the others. Vairë touches her husband's hand, smiling. Like Nienna, the Lord of Mandos is of the Aratar; their brother Irmo is not – and does not want to be.

"I think our Arcala would forgive you anything." Námo muses, as stern as if he had not been laughing. Vairë still smiles, but she does not often speak, she hears the song of the world and Weaves it, draping the Halls of Mandos in stories, so those who wait – the elves and man- will know what goes on beyond Námo's Hall. So they know when the wait is ended.

Midgardsormr wiggles out of his sister's grip, finding it undignified to be so coddled in front of his older brother. Nienna playfully dabs at her wet eyes, as if wounded, and only when he whines in concern does she let him see her eyes shine like stars, bright and gleaming happily. Midgardsormr huffs and goes to Námo, rubbing against his legs like a large cat, and indeed Vairë pets him, and his markings form, written upon his hide, the song of Eru, ever-changing markings in ruby red against gold and silver.

Oromë, Lord of Forests, whistles in greeting at seeing him, coming not from the path, but from the woods, his horn Valaróma is at his side, and he is astride silver Nahar. A steed that is snow white under the light of Anar, the Sun, last fruit of golden Laurelin that was guided by the Maia maiden Arien.

At his side is Vána, his wife, Ever-young, who goes to greet her older sister Yavanna upon setting sight upon her. She in passing gives to Midgardsormr a ring of golden flowers that he knows he will have once he wakes, and that they will never die.

"I thank you, Oromë, for finding my people." It had been this white rider who had dared the forests of Middle Earth in hunting, not for the flesh of mortal animals, but for the enemy Melkor and his beasts and servants. Hunting, and hoping, in his own way, to find those lost to darkness and shadows, those like Midgardsormr – who is burned by the question of if, if Oromë _had_ found him…

It is a painful thought, one they both will dwell always upon.

In doing his hunting, Oromë, had found the newly born elves, lost and alone in the dark – for in those days the light of the Trees did not reach beyond the shores of Aman, the Undying Lands when that land had not been hidden and sundered from Arda, the Middle Earth when it was rounded.

"It was my pleasure. I became…fond of them." Oromë smiles, and Midgardsormr can not begrudge him the finding and leading and raising of the elves. He could have chosen no better Aratar.

Nessa laughs and her laugh is light and ringing, she comes to greet Midgardsormr, and to laugh at her brother Oromë, teasing and gentle. She is lithe, and light of foot, quicker than any of the deer who are dear to her. One of those normally shy beasts follows her, a baby with a white hide and red eyes.

She is wild and wed to the warrior-like Tulkas, who follows at her heels, smiling to see them all gathered together. He, like Oromë, thinks of Malkor only as an enemy, not as one of the Valar.

"Merely _fond_, my brother? Do not let him fool you Narsil, he loves the elves as the elves love the woods, he made his home their own, all the forests and woodlands he lays to their claim. I like them too, so I give them their quickness, and their grace, and they can dance upon the snow, is that not lovely?" Nessa twirls about, and ends it with a bow, and Midgardsormr can not help but bow his head in agreement.

She eyes him, as if wondering how swift his wings can take him and it is in her eyes to ask a race. Nessa may be the least of the Valar, but she is not without her gifts. Tulkas is tireless in his running, and likes the chase rather than the catching of his lithe and lovely wife.

"We gave them gifts that we could not give to you, now we are glad we gave as we did, for their company is a balm." Tulkas knew now his handling of Fëanor, the elf maker of the Silmarils, who had gathered their light from the Trees before Melkor unmade those as well, but Tulkas had been hasty and newly come into Eä, the universe from the Timeless Halls where Ilúvatar dwelt.

"I am glad." Midgardsormr says, though he still feels little at the sight of Tulkas. It is he who touches the dragon's brow, the last of the dust there goes, and beneath is a scar that ties his soul to another's, the lightning bolt is white and old.

"Tag, Narsil you are it!" Nessa challenges, poking his shining hide. She's gone in the time he blinks astonishment. Midgardsormr chases her, as the other Valar laugh, all save Námo – who rolls his eyes. Midgardsormr leaves them behind with a sweep of his wings, with the swiftness of the wind. He sees his shadow fall upon Nessa – and than the wind takes him higher, to Ilmarin the watchtower at the summit of Taniquetil, highest of the mountains on Arda, the Earth. It is the Holy Mountain of the range ofPelóri, there they see all of it, from the peek of Kalórmë – the next tallest of all mountains – where it lays in the Wall of the Sun, beyond the Eastern Seas, the Lands of the Sun where the Gates of Morning laid had not yet been lived upon. None dared it.

The giant and great eaglesof Manwë and Varda call a greeting to him, leading him up to Ilmarin – as if the very winds did not already obeyManwë. Midgardsormr lets it happen, as he is set down through what would be a wall-length window, if not for the fact that no glass is held within the frame. No wind or air or weather that Manwë does not want would cross that barrier, but Midgardsormr does – because he is wanted. He tries to calm himself at that thought.

Manwë stands before him, blue robed and blue eyed, with his sapphire scepter made for him by the Ñoldor, who had broken his heart in their kin slaying with other elves. Of all the Ainur, he is eldest, and King of the Valar. His lady is Varda, who has hated the brother of her husband since first setting eyes upon Melkor, long before coming into Eä. Of all Valar, Melkor retreats from her most readily.

Varda was concerned most with light –and it's – his - lack, she made the stars and constellations to stand against the dark without fail – she filled the Lamps, collected the dew of the Trees into her Wells which gave light and refreshment to all who had sought it in that time. She had hallowed the Silmarils which now lay in the three realms of Arda, in the sky, beneath the earth, and within the sea.

She had given the Sun and Moon their courses. If Manwë can not ever understand evil, because he best understands the will of Ilúvatar – Varda does, all too well for she is of the light of Ilúvatar, and sees too true. She is closest to what Midgardsormr was meant to be, among the Valar and as an Aratar.

"Midgardsormr, do you fear me? None of my stars could light your way, though it was my hope to guide you home. I failed you, but Manwë and I did what we could to protect and guide your people, when they could be guided. The Vanyar we love most, and keep near us to rear. Do you yet hate me, Midgardsormr?" Varda asks of him, looking down at him. He is aware of his tears. Her face is a solemn, doomed mask, trying for Námo's dispassion.

"How can I be, Lady? You who are Elbereth Gilthoniel, star queen, star kindler. My guide." Manwë smiles down at him, but Varda nods thoughtfully.

"I have looked into the mind of Melkor, and I have seen what he did to you Narsil, Arcala, Midgardsormr." Varda kneels beside him and embraces him, shining them both in light that is silver and gold and good.

"I forgive you, if you forgive me." This Varda whispered to him, and he nodded his agreement without hesitation.

"You know you are welcome among us, you should stay among us, but I have seen enough of you Narsil, to know you will not. What do you will?" Manwë did not say want, or need, so Midgardsormr answered with his will.

"The Lords of Valar and Ladies of Valier have given me much of what I once was, and this is good. There are things that Malkor left behind him; he is no maker – only mighty, so I may yet undo that darkness – the orcs, I fear – are my fault. If I had not been...what I became – Malkor might never have made orcs from elves and man." Manwë tilted his head thoughtfully, looking beyond Midgardsormr, to the sea, where laid Middle Earth.

"So you would go, while your people are welcomed among us?" Midgardsormr nodded, firm in his will. Manwë, king, Valar, Ainur, and Aratar could not sway will. Nor would he want to.

"So be it." Manwë touches him with his sapphire scepter, first on his left shoulder – which faces east – and than his right, which is to the west; and as the dawn's light touches him – he is changed, not in the shape of Midgardsormr – but as Narsil Arcala, his lightning bolt scar is silver, his skin shines with golden light, his eyes are green, and his hair is black – for Melkor had touched him, changed him – but perhaps not twisted him beyond what can be undone with light and hope and love.

Narsil falls from Ilmarin, and flies to the sea upon the wind that Manwë has given him, to meet Ulmo at the edge of it. Ulmo, who most loves all water, be it of the sea salt, or the rivers and fresh lakes, dresses as a wave in green gilt armor, with Ulumúri horns about his waist. It is he who guides the elves safely to these lands, and calls them home here.

Narsil has never hated Malkor more, and longed more for what he would have been without his evil, than at seeing UImo, who is his, as much as the elves who Ulmo loves for his sake.

Ulmo embraces him, the life giving waters holding to the life giving light, as is right for Ulmo lives in the very veins of Arda, the Earth – and he has been waiting and longing for Narsil, will always be near him now – the very water he drinks from, the river he swims in, the rain that plays against his skin.

Narsil wakes to that feeling, living, breathing it, and longing for the sea like any elf. He knows now why they love it, and it is only _in part_ because of the Undying Lands. It is because he loves Ulmo. He was always meant to love Ulmo. Narsil knows he can not be swept away by the tide of Ulmo's over welcoming; welcoming love, there will be time enough for them, after his will is done. It is a goal – and Ulmo the reward, the for he is never far away. Ulmo sees and hears all that water is.

Narsil wipes the wetness from his eyes, for he is not like his weeping sister Nienna – his weeping heals nothing - and rubs his old silver scar, and stares at gold leaves until he gets an idea, and jumps down from the tree to speak to Glorfindel and Haldir who are still below.

He is face to face with an arrow – and a sword, before he thinks of what shape he wore before and Narsil laughs at having forgotten his form.

He is again Midgardsormr, the size of a horse now, scales shining silver and gold and he flicks his forked tongue at them, teasing. Glorfindel puts away his sword, looking as if he does not believe what he sees standing in front of him. Haldir tucks his arrows into the quiver at his back. They are wary of him, but willing to listen.

That is, in the end, what he needs and wants and wills.

Together they go East.

0o0o0

(_Tolkien never went into much detail about what became of Mohrinehtar (Alatar) and Rómestámo (Pallando), the Maiar who served as Istari wizards, he seems to think they either failed – or succeeded and made all the unseen difference, but Glorfindel might have been a shipmate of them, and there is some question of if Glorfindel of Gondolin might have been reincarnated as Glorfindel of Rivendell._)


	57. Murder May I , Sherlock&HP

**Murder May I **

CryKing's prompt:

..oh..oh no...  
Baby Harry is being watched by Sherlock - Mrs Hudson goes for groceries and John is at work and Sherlock gets a call from Lestrade to come to a murder scene...and Sherlock can't just leave Harry alone because John said to watch him...and so Sherlock takes baby Harry with him...

(This takes place sometime after ch. 44 However Improbable)

0o0o0

Harry is starting to fuss, being woken from his crib and his nap that John had put him down for before leaving for the evening shift; the phone is ringing, and Sherlock is all alone in a world that suddenly doesn't make sense no matter how much he tries to wrap his mind around it.

'How did this happen?' Sherlock wonders, unknowingly echoing words that he's going to be hearing coming from John Watson before the day is out. Sherlock practices juggling Harry on his hip, because the two year old opened those green eyes and saw him and reached up with grabby hands that Sherlock knew he would regret ignoring. There might be shrieking involved.

Sherlock didn't dare to risk it He answers that blasted ringing – because, oh no, the caller isn't one of those rare clever people who call once and get a message machine and leave a message and take a hint – no, he – or she – is one of those who call over and over and over again until Harry's taken notice and starts to whine about it. He nuzzles into Sherlock's throat, yawning and rubbing his eyes, wide awake now.

"If you haven't got a very, very good reason for calling – if this is some telemarketer or automated add message – I'm going to end you." Sherlock Holmes rarely makes threats, he prefers more…unorthodox and subtle methods, but when he uses them, he means them – and he is always, always serious sounding. Unfortunately the familiar man at the other end of the line is undaunted by all of it.

"Sherlock, this is Inspector Lestrade – I'm glad you can pick up a phone, now I've sent Officer Patton to pick you up and come directly here. No excuses, there has been a murder at London Bridge." The call ends promptly, no by your leave, or if you could nor if your not busy babysitting. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"And John says I lack social skills." Sherlock tells baby Harry, because he's been told not to talk to skulls or other former living things and-or inanimate objects while Harry is about, at John's order. The weekend with the Union Jack pillow jumping about and barking was quite enough to cure Sherlock of that. Sherlock would not have to go looking for another roommate, so its John's orders are – mostly – taken to heart.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouts, and Harry hollers with him, and no one answers or comes running. Of course, because that's just the sort of day it is, with people calling him and demanding things and no one doing the same for him. Share and share alike, but the world's not fair as even Harry well knows. Sherlock goes looking for her, because that's just the sort of person he is, and he doesn't take long to find the note.

_Sherlock & John_

_Gone shopping for the little Harry, be back about five._

"Perfect." Sherlock snarls at the paper, as it's two hours too late and Lestrade won't wait - and Harry suckles at his thumb and watches him with wide green eyes. Sherlock knows Harry at almost three can babble more than talk, his vocabulary is better and better by the day - but if something ever comes out of his mouth that's remotely a swear-word, John might do something regrettable to Sherlock.

"Well, there no helping it, Harry, you are coming with me to a murder." John might have indulged Sherlock about the laptop, but Lestrade isn't the sort to take proper advantage of the advances in technology that may allow Sherlock to solve every case without leaving Harry alone in their flat.

"Help murder?" Harry bites his lip, and frowns, looking for the entire world as if he's considering it. The words not utterly unfamiliar to Harry now, despite John's attempts to shield him from what they do, but he still doesn't grasp their full meaning, and Sherlock stifles a laugh that might have a bit of hysteria in it.

"No, no thank you Harry. You're not to ever help anyone murder someone; least of all your godfather John to murder me. Ok?" Sherlock knows it's a logical argument, to take Harry along with him – because John Watson and Mrs. Hudson had made it adamantly clear Harry was never to be left alone without someone to watch him – or with a stranger. So that left Sherlock with Harry and a crime scene.

Saying no to Lestrade might result in arrest, and Sherlock thought it better that John found him solving a crime scene with a toddler like it was a Sunday stroll rather than bailing him out of jail with a baby.

"Ok!" Harry chirps quite happy to make Sherlock happy. If only it could stay that way forever. Officer Patton is a woman with a badge, and doesn't expect Sherlock Holmes to have a baby – that much is clear from the blank look on her face and the wide shocked eyes.

"Here, hold this." Sherlock passes her what John call's the baby bag, but it's more like a lady's purse, and Harry isn't letting her hold Harry while going down stairs in front of her. So he lends the way to the obvious police cruiser, and gets in the passenger side while he waits for Officer Patton to get in and pass him the baby bag.

She doesn't say a word the whole way there, but that's likely because Harry is babbling about all the sights he sees and Sherlock is pointing out what he misses and praising him on what he spots that isn't as obvious as a car being blue. It's a game the two of them play that never fairs to amuse John to no end.

The cruiser pulls up to the curb and Sherlock puts the baby bag on his shoulder and gets out as Harry waves to Officer Patton, who doesn't quite succeed in hiding her charmed smile from Sherlock Holmes.

"What's this?" Sally Donovan demands, as if Sherlock's in the habit of kidnapping toddlers and not catching killers. Harry is still in the habit of clinging when he meets new people – not that Sherlock blames him. Sgt. Sally Donovan isn't a very nice looking… lady… when she sneers at him. Them.

"Who, not what, Sergeant Donovan - this is Harry Potter, John's godson." Sherlock sneers right back at her, his back straight and proud. Harry is his – and John's – and Sherlock's already asked Mycroft to make the paperwork go through all proper like.

"Of course...it doesn't matter who he is Sherlock, little boy's don't belong at homicides." Sally tells him with a roll of her eyes. She's still suspicious, but she doesn't look so ready and willing to take Harry from him. A good thing too, because Harry likes to bite.

"I know that, but Lestrade wouldn't wait and we haven't got any sitters, the interviewers are still having their backgrounds checked." Very thoroughly, by Sherlock and Mycroft both – but Sally Donovan doesn't need to know that.

"Well, he's certainly the youngest yet." Anderson states, as if he isn't surprised by Sherlock, he's not – he expects the worst of Sherlock, who before John and Harry and Lestrade, hadn't had a reason to be better. Anderson's seen at his lowest – but Sherlock's vowed he never will again.

"Ah, Anderson, couldn't call in sick today?" Sherlock doesn't pause to see what the other man – or Sally – makes of what he says, but continues on to where the most people are coming and going. Naturally that would be where the victim is, because everyone wants to come and see and contaminate a crime scene. Sherlock's never had more proof than at a crime scene that despite tools, people are still barbarians itching for blood. He's never needed it.

"Sherlock…" Lestrade starts to say, turning to greet him – but Harry, despite standing no higher than his knee, is somehow all that everyone sees. It's useful knowledge, and in the wrong setting could be dangerous. Sherlock ignores Lestrade's sudden tension and new signs of stress in favor of studying the dead man.

"Harry, say hello, this is Lestrade." John says that Harry should meet new people, and not be rude, so Sherlock absently instructs him at it, and hand Harry over to Lestrade. He's not a stranger, and Sherlock is within sight, so Harry shouldn't fuss too much.

"Hullo, Le – Lee…" Harry's mouth moves, tongue and lips silently trying to mimic Sherlock's effortless pronouncing of a strange name. Sherlock would coach him at it, but Lestrade only looks helplessly between the toddler and Sherlock.

"Please tell me he's not been kidnapped." Sherlock rolls his eyes, but decides to answer. While teasing him might be funny and entertaining, the results might be regretful.

"No, he's John's godson, and we are taking care of him now." Sherlock doesn't say how long – let Lestrade assume it's only for a bit, that Harry has proper parents somewhere.

"Lover's spat, I'm afraid. You should check with London Streets, as he's likely employed there." Sherlock gestures for Harry to come to him, and Harry readily obeys – wiggling from Lestrade's hands and leaping into Sherlock's,

"Who, the victim?" Lestrade frowns as he reaches for his notebook in his pocket, as Harry settles down and yawns against Sherlock's side. Sherlock thinks it's just in time for another nap.

"No, his boyfriend. I'm sure they'll have their address too." Sherlock says, over his shoulder, as he hails a cab and gets in. There is a familiar ring tone, and Harry grins up at him while Sherlock fumbles for it, cringing within.

"Dada, Papa, Dada!" Mycroft thinks its fitting justice that John gets called 'Dada' and Sherlock's a 'Papa'. He never has said anything, but his smirk is proof enough. The downside to any murder is the news crews and their cameras.

"How did this happen? Sherlock, what were you thinking?" Sherlock Holmes would do anything to delay that conversation and distract John Watson (who sounds bloody furious) so Sherlock passes the phone to Harry. John's weakness, the one weapon that Sherlock knows John won't dismiss.

"Harry here, Dada wants to talk to you – tell him all about our day." Harry does so, gladly and enthusiastically, leaving no detail not mentioned. Sherlock's never been prouder.


	58. Erised, HP&Tales of Vesperia

Erised

CryKing's prompt:

Tales of Vesperia/HP X-over  
"Harry as a male!Rita Mordio taking her place in Tales of Vesperia's story. I really want to see him using magic and just being a badass genius spellcaster. It would also be very nice to see his interactions with the rest of the team."

0o0o0

The thing Harry Potter never wondered about was what mirrors reflected – the truth? – What you wanted and desired most? Or more, that they stole souls and switched them, just maybe. There is after all, truth in old stories, for what is Harry Potter without being also a wizard? Magic has its mysteries tied to life and lies.

Rita Mordio now ponders that very question everyday – what is a mirror, really, and how to work one. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, but no one ever said what might happen when Erised let you see what you most desired – and you looked into that smiling mirror-self's eyes, and wanted – and Erised swallowed you up and spat you out, somewhere, some when.

Harry doesn't know who Rita was before he was her, he thinks of mirrors and how you can see yourself once in them, but if you have another mirror, the refection of yourself goes on and on endlessly, the same looking person with small changes that you aren't supposed to notice because of how far away and small that repeating refection gets. Most people won't look for how eerie it is. For when you see the mirror's refection of yourself going away, how can you doubt how many worlds you might see if you looked?

Rita Mordio is –was – a girl of eleven, just like him, she had his eyes, and his mother's red hair. She's an orphan just like Harry, and he knows her name, but he knows nothing else about her; he tries to make a life for himself in the caves of Aspio, a city within a cave, a city of scholars. If anywhere on the world of Terca Lumireis may have the answers of how it happened and if Harry can ever get his own world, his own body back – it is here. He likes to think he didn't kill her when he went into her, because there is no one's mind but his own within this body that isn't his own, but is. He likes to think, maybe, they just traded places, and somewhere where his world is, she's working this out just like he is.

It's a hope to hold to, despite everything – and everyone – and it nearly costs Rita dearly, a fame grudgingly given by other mages is nearly taken by a thief that leads a boy, a noble, and a knight into her locked house.

They, in the end, hold the key to everything Rita lacks – friends, family – a home where the heart is, that's what Rita didn't have, lacked all along, was shunned for – not caring about her heart in the face of the trinity of aer and blastia and magic.

They save her, when she didn't know she needed or wanted the saving. So she saves them, and keeps saving them, because that's just who she is and will always be. No matter the body.

0o0o0

Repede isn't a dog, not really, in the same way that Rita Mordio isn't just an ordinary human who uses blastia. Repede uses daggers and bodhi bastia – not his teeth and claws, to attack – he carries about a pipe, and has a scar, and is wary of just about everyone. Everyone except Yuri, of course – but also, also Rita – and she can admit she doesn't like dogs who are almost as big as she is without jumping up on her shoulders and biting her face off.

So she decides she doesn't like him, when it's obvious Repede likes her. She won't get to know him, won't encourage his liking of her with touch as Estelle yearns to.

Rita Mordio sits under a tree and studies scrolls pretending she doesn't enjoy the warmth and light and the way it makes her skin sweat. She feels she's forgotten sunlight and dawn and dusk beneath the yawning mouth of the earth. She felt safe there; like it was a womb, but this…this is outside. Where no one dares go, for fear of monsters and more dangerous things, no one dares it – because those who dare, they disappear.

Rita doesn't notice it, as Repede sneaks closer and closer, crawling up to her on his belly, until his head is on her knee and her absentminded stroking of his fur is like her rubbing her fingers over the hard cover of her book, thinking. Of where they go – where the Rita who was born to this body went – and what happened to his body, his world, if that Rita isn't in it.

"Finally getting your way, huh, Repede?" Yuri laughs to see them there, and Rita yelps and yanks her hand back, crawling away from Repede as he whines and looks at her with big brown eyes, human eyes.

But, Repede isn't a human, isn't a dog, Repede is Repede, and in being that he teaches Rita little by little, that it doesn't matter what name or what body, Rita Mordio is a sorcerer, and so was Harry Potter.

0o0o0

Estelle is noble, not only by the blood in her body, or in the clothes and manners she carries, but in her heart – she has the heart of a healer, and a lover. It's noble and good and Rita wants to protect that about Estelle with everything she is.

She cares about everyone and everything, and can't see how people can be bad or evil, because she isn't like that. She was content to be tucked away in a castle, to live her life that way because she knew no other – and sometimes, sometimes Rita hates Yuri and Flynn for Estelle's sake, because Estelle barely knows what hate is and couldn't hate them even if she tried.

Estelle loves, and Rita can't help but love her back, it's not like being in love, or in lust, or desire or longing, it's…it's a bond, a friendship, that kind of innocent love. Estelle gives it to everyone, just about, and she doesn't expect to be given anything back. But that love…It's there about Rita's heart and soul, tying her to Estelle and her compassion and kindness before Rita can help it, that's not to say Rita can't break that frail golden chain, she can break anything – but she doesn't want to.

So Rita gives Estelle books of every kind, because Estelle loves them too, and it's something that they share.

Rita never expects to be given anything in return, but she accepts it, wordless and a bit weepy, when Estelle gives her a book for her birthday – a day that no one in Aspio had ever heeded, for Rita had no one, needed no one – until now.

0o0o0

Yuri will never strike Karol, he's a boy, a child, but Rita is a girl (for now) and so she does, because Rita recognizes what kind of boy Karol might become, and she wants him to be better – better than Yuri who wields cynicism and sarcasm like blastia, a defense against hurt and bitterness, it's a brittle defense in this world, their world – Rita's world. In any world.

"Why do you keep hitting me?" Karol yells, and Rita laughs. She thinks, one day, he might fight back – but that day isn't today. Too bad, because what Yuri doesn't know about blastia Rita would teach Karol freely - to see this boy become bigger, better than Yuri, than Flynn – yes, even better than Harry Potter might have been.

"You're angry and afraid aren't you?" Rita sees it in his eyes, the fear that one day they will reject him, just like anyone else he's tried to join. Rita wants to tell him that they never will – Estelle could do that in a breath, would do it too – but Estelle is blind to this fault of Karol and Yuri doesn't know what to do about it other than to do what Flynn does and be his brother.

Rita knows it's up to her, to address Karol's growing pains - because it is a pain to grow up, to live, and to keep living. But, it's also worth it.

"They never solved anything!" And that's it, right there. Rita, like a cat, pounces upon it.

"Ah, but if they're bottled up and kept under the surface, like a sore, it festers and blisters and hurts – hurts so much, until you don't know if you might die, if you might be better off or not with fear and fury cut off. They are a part of you, not a limb – so express them why don't you?" Karol looks at Rita as if he's never quite seen her before. He listens to her then, as much as he listens to Yuri, and that's all that Rita could have asked for – but wouldn't – and more.

It's the last day Rita hits Karol with more than words, and she couldn't be prouder.

0o0o0

Rita often likes people, or hates them on first sight, not based on anything like looks, or power, or temper, but because it's her instinct. Judith though, Rita doesn't know what to think of Judith at first. She seems to come out of legend, a knight upon its dragon, destroying and taking and pillaging the blastia. In the world, the blastia are the only things Rita understood – and now…now she's not so sure she didn't have everything wrong from the start.

Ba'ul and Judith have a purpose, a reason, and Rita can learn the hard way to like someone. It's a very, very good reason, a reason that might end with the world ending if Judith gives it up.

Judith will watch over Estelle until she does something wrong – and then Judith will end her life, but Rita will watch over Estelle until Judith kills her – because that's the only way Judith will get to Estelle. Rita's made that clear to Judith, though no one else might know it.

"Not on my life." Rita whispers to the dragon-like Ba'ul and Judith, whips in both hands and blastia burning brightly. None but the Kritya girl and Entelexeia hear her, and each time Judith's answer is humbled silence. They understand the bond that Rita has for Estelle, for their partnership is much the same.

For a while, any meeting between Rita and Judith is like the rock and the hard place, the frying pan and the fire, but it's Estelle who teaches Judith too, and their meetings become kinder in turn, slowly the word forms in the back of Rita's tongue for what Judith is to her, and it is friend.

"You remind me of my father, Hermes." Judith says out of the blue one day, and Rita chokes on it. So it is a good thing they are alone, and Rita thinks that may have been Judith's reasoning.

"How so..?" Rita has heard of him, Hermes – and Aspio has more pages written about him and his work than Judith ever says.

"Brilliant, but blind when it come to what harm blastia can do. I have Ba'ul to lead me, but who do you have?" Judith's glance is measuring, and pitying, but there is an offer there.

"You, I suspect." Rita mutters, not without some respect.

Judith smiles, shy and slight- and it's how they work, in the end, Ba'ul finds the blastia that distort aer, and Rita does her research to test them, and hopefully produce a result that doesn't end in the blastia being destroyed – but if it does have to be that way, Judith does it.

Rita doesn't envy her, because of what Hermes was – what Rita is – Judith fears that one day, Rita will die, and only Judith and Ba'ul will remember them, and for that memory, destroy what made them be called geniuses.

Rita takes Judith for a friend, and forgives her.

0o0o0

Flynn is Empire born and raised, noble by blood, but his best friend is Yuri, a commoner – Yuri never says outright how he feels about Flynn, but because Rita meets Flynn first – she knows, and wonders if Yuri denies their friendship, but he never says, and that's more than half the problem with Yuri – he keeps too much of himself to himself for it to be healthy. Rita knows all about that.

Flynn sees the corruption of the Imperial Knights – how can he not? – but he also sees their great potential, so he sticks with them, he makes himself into a ideal – and he changes them from the inside out. It's slow, painful, but a change that takes courage and unbending strength.

Rita admires it.

"You know what you are." Flynn says one day to her, when she goes to the ruins without her research, intent to see them without the need to study. Flynn has heard all about Mordio, she's sure – and what's more, knows her on sight, the genius, revered and reviled.

"Of course I do, as much as you do Imperial Knight." Flynn nods in acceptance of that fact that Rita sees. Most people, if you told them that so point blank, they'd back off, be scared away. Flynn isn't like that though, he stays, he sits beside her and offers apple slices and tells her about Yuri – who's never far from his thoughts – and about what he's going to do to change the world.

Yuri and Flynn are so much like Rita and Judith in the end, they fit together willingly, or the world makes them- because it needs them.

0o0o0

Raven is Karol all grown up wrong, is the worst of Yuri and a broken Flynn. He's much more than what meets the eye, Rita is sure – but she's equally sure that what she sees is only the tip of the iceberg of what he is, what's wrong with him and his story. Raven prefers to act the part of a jester - joking the world away.

Rita won't have it, and every time he tries it – she shows that.

Raven admires her for that, tests her, teases her, and in her own way she cares for him as much as he doesn't care about his own past and it's cost.

"It still hurts." Raven says to her in the dark, and he isn't talking about the bruises on his body – one of which Rita gave to him, he isn't talking about his blastia heart. He is talking about hurt, and loss, and the past that is his story to tell, his history which he never will.

"It always does, Raven - that's life, it hurts, it lies, and you live with it if your lucky." Raven turns to look at her, black eyes gleaming with curiosity. Rita knows her body, how young it is – what she looks like with her lithe form and red hair and green eyes, and she knows that Raven loves that show of beauty and strength – like he likes Judith. Rita though, isn't for the likes of his lusts.

"I always thought pain would fade, given time enough." She shakes her head, cradled by her hands behind it.

"It never does, but you might forget – but you shouldn't." Raven yawns, pretending that he isn't paying a lot of attention to what he says and what she says. Just the way that Rita had seen Raven for what he was, he sees her for more than a cranky genius with bad people skills. She can't be so bad at it, if she's managed friends like these – it's just she never tried, never thought she needed them.

If Raven can see that folly of hers, the question is:

"Why? Why didn't you ever try to get along with people, instead of pushing them away?" They could have helped you, is the unspoken statement, even when people hadn't been able to help Raven simply because he couldn't trust them for more than laughing at his jokes.

"I was trying not to forget." Raven knows what that's like, so he falls as silent as the night – which is never really silent, full of bugs and people snoring and speaking in their sleep and things awake and wandering.

Forget what? Raven must wonder, but he never says it, because he knows how much it would hurt.

0o0o0

Rita Mordio must wonder, sometimes, what Harry Potter would be like in his own body, because sometimes you do forget that feeling of being under your own skin – and what Rita was like in her body, and he wonders too – if Patty Fleur would be it. Trying to find treasure, in the wrong body, a mind without memory…

In the face of that, Rita can't really complain.

"What do you most desire?" It jars Rita, how close to all the truth of her existence bottles down to Patty's words. Rita's never been good with children, or with people, it doesn't matter if they are her age or older, or younger, if she likes someone she likes someone, if she doesn't she tries not to dwell on it.

With Patty, Rita…just doesn't, she doesn't feel either way – like it was with Judith when she was hiding who she was – Patty's not hiding it, she can't help it – and Rita tries not to hold it against her.

"I have it, what more could I want?" Rita looks around at them, her friends, her family, and wonders if Patty will always be among them. She can hope so, and watch out for her, but Patty might not be Patty when she gets her treasure. Patty watches her look them over, and thinks about it, doesn't dismiss what Rita says and wants.

"What's lost, of course?" She can't be happy with what she has until she has what she lost, even if it's not good for her.

Rita hopes, one day, that Patty will be who she wants to be, and will be happy – because Patty looks at her, and wants just the same for Rita.

0o0o0

Yuri Lowell is a hero, bitter about the blood of common and noble, but a hero – and everyone knows it, but Yuri doesn't want it. He's like Rita was, once, long ago, only no one but Flynn saw it and protected him. He'd take the weight of the world until it broke his back bloody. Rita takes it upon herself to show him that he isn't the only hard-ass, and being tough is nothing compared to being kind.

Some people can have completely normal, healthy conversation, completely free of insults, slurs, and slights – somewhere, Rita is sure. But that's boring, and Yuri knows it as well as Rita does, so they talk, and others call it bickering; it's not really about what you say, in the end, its how you say it.

Yuri isn't sorry, he isn't "okay", he never will be – but that's okay, Rita won't be either.

In the end, what they have is that bitter-sweet knowledge that they aren't alone- and never will be.

0o0o0

(So, uh, I watched someone play the game on Youtube until they got to Aspio and met Rita after getting this prompt – I know there is a Tales of Vesperia: First Strike movie, but I didn't see it like I planed to and most of the rest of it I based on Aselia the Tales Wiki so I can only cross my fingers and hope I didn't screw up with it. )


	59. Not A Nanny, HP&Sherlock

**Not A Nanny**

******e. elusive**'s prompt: I would love a continuation of chapter 44 with baby Harry growing up with John and Sherlock and perhaps with Snape involved somehow.

0o0o0

"It's going to keep happening, you know." Sherlock Holmes says in greeting to John, and he's not talking about the mess that Harry had made of the living room. A toy set of musical interments and other curious children's toys that Sherlock had had shipped here from around the world – not that the flat is any more or less dirty then it's ever been. He's talking about what happened, what he's avoided talking about until now – taking a toddler to a crime scene, because he's found the list of nursery's John has been looking into.

It had only been a matter of time, John knew.

"No, Sherlock, it's not. Not ever again. Do you understand?" In this John Watson is firm, he won't have Lily's baby knowing people kill people before he's finished teething. Sherlock had handed Harry off to Lestrade, and that had distracted the toddler enough that he hadn't looked down to see what Sherlock was doing, to notice a dead man's body and Sherlock's study of it.

That wouldn't be the case all the time, Sherlock had gotten lucky – but luck ran out – and John didn't want to have to explain what death and dying and dead meant, because he wouldn't leave _that_ to Sherlock. It was an enough of a mess already. Harry was fussy and kicking and yelling and acting out, and John knew why as well as Sherlock did. It was them.

"Do you really think I had a choice? I can't help who I am John – and neither can you – we can't hide who we are from him, nor should we. What was I to do with him, really? Sit him down in front of the telly and tell him to stay put – Papa's got to go to work?" Sherlock looks at the black TV screen as he speaks, and John doesn't have to look to know he's sneering at it.

"You could have told Lestrade no." John snarls back. His grip on his tea cup is tight and white knuckled, he's never been so tempted to smash it to bits. Instead, he sips and if his hands shake, Sherlock says not a word about noticing it.

"He _hung up_ on me!" Sherlock says instead, softly. He knows how close John is to breaking their partnership off, taking Harry so far away that Sherlock will never catch up with them. If anyone on Earth can do that, it's John Watson, because he is what he is, and magic and wand waving and spells are only a small part of it. A small part of Sherlock Holmes thinks that John and Harry would both be better off without him, would let them run off, and wouldn't chase them as it broke his heart.

"So call him back! _Merlin_, Sherlock, you can't just drag a toddler anywhere you want to go!" John stands, spilling tea and paying no mind to it as he paces back and forth, as if Sherlock's got him caged here.

"John, please, just… please, sit down and - solve this with me, alright? I know I made a mistake, but wouldn't you rather he be with _me_ and safe than…than with strangers?" Sherlock's legs were tucked to his middle, his arms wrapped about them and his head cradled atop them, John hadn't noticed, but he stops and stares at the sight. Sherlock is vulnerable, he realizes, is hurting, and he hadn't let John see until now. John sighs and sits down beside Sherlock.

"Of course I want him safe Sherlock, but you're not exactly the safest person. Neither of us is." It's as much rueful as truthful, and John tries to smile past the pain of admitting it.

"No nursery's John, a babysitter would suffice. He should stay here, yes, but I don't want him to be passed from stranger to stranger he should have…stability." John's never really asked about how Sherlock was raised, but what he says is a shadow that had to have come from the past.

"So, a babysitter – are you and Mycroft having any luck at finding one?" John sees Sherlock shake his head and sighs.

"Not a one?" John frowns, as he sees offers in the paper, and ads, surely in all of London is someone the Holmes brothers would find suitable.

"Everyone has something to hide, parking tickets, punctuality problems, bad grades, family instability, possible personality problems." John snorts, for it sort of sounds like…

"You're really taking this seriously aren't you?" Sherlock frowns at him, as if doubting John's sanity. It's about time, what with John's following him and Sherlock being bad for anyone's health, but that's beside the point.

"Of course, if we are going to trust someone to him, it should be the best of the best." John can't help but roll his eyes.

"Sherlock, _no one_ is perfect like that, we should just find someone nice and good with children." Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and John just knows that isn't enough for him. It never will be. He feels like laughing, because of course Sherlock would find every fault in others and overlook his own. Well, not overlook, because Sherlock was aware of everything, but surely ignore.

"They all claim to be, and who's to say if we are away if they are right or not? Mycroft's offered to bug them beforehand – and have a few hidden cameras here, but what could we do if something happened and we were too far away to get here in time to…to…" Sherlock looks back to the TV, and John understands all to well why he won't finish. Sherlock's seen the worst in people, their crimes, their causes, their results, and he can all too easily imagine crime after crime happening in his own home, to Harry.

John reaches out to Sherlock's shoulder and squeezes. He stands and starts getting ready to go to work, but his pauses before the door.

"Alright then, we'll figure something else out." John thinks of the people he trusts with his life, _has_ trusted with his life – and he realizes there really are only two, Sherlock Holmes and Severus Snape. John Watson laughs, and goes to see his oldest friend.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, knowing that he's gotten more used to John's Apparation and Disapparition than the usual way of walking.

0o0o0

"You want me to _what_?" Severus Snape's dark eyes are wide in disbelief. John just smiles calmly back, full of confidence that his plan will work – if Severus only gives it half a chance. He also has to bring it up with Sherlock – and introduce Harry to Severus – and Severus to Sherlock - to see what each of them makes of each other, but he's taking it one step at a time.

"Watch him, take care of him – you helped to save him after all, _surely_ you can look after him once in a while as well." Severus coughs as if he might be strangling. He runs his hands through his greasy hair, and his eyes flick about in his chambers at Hogwarts – there isn't much here, not like at Spinner's End.

"John, you might have noticed, I'm not very good with children…" Severus tapped his fingers on his chair, looking about as if searching for a way to escape, or an excuse to get away.

"You're teaching them at Hogwarts right now. So that's not a great argument there." John feels it's his duty to point out. The look Severus gives him doesn't thank him for it.

"Yes, and I'm under Dumbledore's eyes everywhere here – how am I ever to get away and help you to…watch the spawn?" Severus doesn't quite flinch from the stare John levels at him.

"Harry James Potter _is not_ James Potter, _he is_ Lily's son, and you have your vow to keep, let's not forget." Severus hisses, and stands from his seat, looking to the flickering flames as green as Lily's eyes had been.

"At least…at least meet the boy Severus." John knows that Severus is a good man, even if Severus doesn't believe it of himself. Dark Mark be damned, it didn't change who Severus had been and still was – if only he'd see what John did. For a long time Severus simply stared at the fire, silent and unmoving.

"Alright…." It was so soft it was a whisper.

"What?" John couldn't be sure he had heard that it wasn't wishful thinking.

"I said, _alright_, I'll do it, but I _won't_ be a Professor here at Hogwarts at the same time. I'll tell Albus I quit it. Do you know, I don't think he's realized Harry Potter isn't under the blood protection wards this whole time? How…reckless, incompetent too." Severus so rarely got the overhand on Albus Dumbledore that John knew he'd relish this chance to change things. John found he didn't begrudge Severus that, instead he passed Severus a business card that Sherlock had had made up but never really passed out, it had his number and address and email on it, and Severus would figure it out.

"We'll be expecting to see you soon, then." Severus nods and says nothing more as he watches John go by Floo.

0o0o0

It's five AM and someone is ringing the door bell and John Watson just might _murder_ the inconsiderate moron – doesn't he – or she? – realize how little sleep a toddler thinks he needs? How _long_ it took to convince Harry otherwise, and that it was okay to sleep because the boogeyman wouldn't make John and Sherlock argue again. Merlin the things Harry came up with.

John's jolted awake and struggling to put on some pants over his boxers, when Sherlock arrives from upstairs with nothing but a robe on.

"Who is it?" Sherlock's wide eyes match well with wild hair. Harry starts to shriek for Papa and Dada having found that he was alone in his room. He has a phobia of being alone, they'd found. John groans at hearing the thundering of three year old feet hurdling toward them from upstairs and across from Sherlock's rooms.

"I don't know but you may have to help me hide the body." John catches the toddler that hurls himself down the stairs and into his legs. Sherlock smiles and says not a word about the plotting of murder. Anderson wouldn't approve of John "encouraging" Sherlock to cross from pet criminal catcher to criminal master mind – but then, Anderson would never know that John had shot a man who'd been trying to tempt Sherlock into suicide.

"Up, up, Dada!" John Watson can't help but obey, settling Harry onto his hip and as Sherlock goes to get the door he does to where his cane hangs at the top of the stairway. He watches from up the stairs, he'd never told Sherlock why he'd kept his cane with him when he didn't need it, but any wizard or witch would understand that John had his wand within it.

"What's all this then?" Mrs. Hudson asks as she opens her door, bat in hand, Sherlock glances to it, amused, but only shakes his head as he passes.

"We are about to find out." Sherlock says as he opens the door, and frowns at what he sees – unkempt oily hair, a hooked nose, and pitch black eyes glare back at him. The man is wearing robes on the street, and Sherlock knows that's indecent – and not at all normal in London.

"Well, I'm here." The man states, as if he's expected. Sherlock doesn't open the door wider to let him in, only stands in the way and raises his eyebrows.

"And _who_ are you?" This mans smile is sly and snake like. A part of Sherlock likes him, can't help to be intrigued by him.

"Severus Snape, John should be expecting me, though you must be Sherlock Holmes. Interesting…." Severus looks Sherlock down to his bare feet and up to his untamed black hair. What he thinks of what he sees, Sherlock can't judge. For once, Sherlock ignores that – he is sure he'll figure Snape out, that he has time to do so, and while he doesn't usually place worth in base instinct, just this once he'll make an exception for his…feeling.

"John, do you know this man?" Sherlock isn't in the habit of yelling, but he makes an exception when strange men visit before dawn has properly risen. He doesn't care if he wakes the whole street doing it; after all, he's been woken up.

"Yes, yes, do let him in Sherlock; he'll be watching Harry for us from now on." To Sherlock's surprised look, narrowed and measuring, Severus only smiles blandly back. Sherlock isn't fooled; he looks as bland as a snake waiting to bite.

"Will he be living here too?" Mrs. Hudson asks, taking it all in stride as if it's an ordinary thing, only to be expected along with their usual strangeness.

"221C Baker Street will suffice." Severus agrees, at once, and Sherlock lets him by, thinking that the damp apartment will suit him. He isn't sure he likes the idea of this man taking care of anyone – least of all Harry, and less likes the robes and long sleeves. He must be hiding something – and if John knows him, he isn't the normal sort of person, likely he can do extraordinary things. It's enough to make Sherlock feel envious after all, how many; can there be of wizards and witches?

"I take it you've already moved in?" John asks, and to that Severus only nods in agreement. Mrs. Hudson steps forward, and Severus pauses to look down at her quite seriously.

"Well, alright, make yourself at home, I suppose, though you must pay rent." Severus's lips curl in something like a sneer. Mrs. Hudson isn't the least deterred, and Sherlock sees the respect in him grow for her.

"Of course, John told me about how much he and Sherlock pay per a month, this ought to suffice for the year." And just like that, Severus Snape hands her a bag full of clanking round coins, by the impression they make on the bag, they are metal, and Sherlock can only wait and watch, and wonder.

"Oh, oh my…yes, that's quite settled, welcome." Mrs. Hudson opened it, and golden coins gleam in the hall light, as strange as Severus is.

Severus pays to attention to her reaction, or Sherlock, he looks up the stairs, where Harry is – who stares down at him with sleepy green eyes. Severus is still as any statue, barely breathing.

"Is that him?" Severus's question is so quiet it's a wonder how John can hear it, but hear it he does and his smile is tender as he looks down at Harry on his hip, in his arms.

"Yes, Severus, this is Harry, Lily's son." John introduces, and Harry giggles and waves, knowing he is the centre of attention and enjoying it. Sherlock catches Severus just barely smiling as he ducks his head and starts to climb the stairs, Harry cheering his every step nearing – and wiggling to hold out a hand for Severus to take, and take it he does, shaking gently as Harry squeezes his fingers.

"So he is." Severus agrees, not hiding his small smile at the sight of the green eyed boy, grinning openly up at him, and Sherlock thinks he'll do just fine with Harry… after both Severus and John have satisfied Sherlock's curiosity, of course.


End file.
